UC-NRLF 


GIFT   OF 


;D  BACON 

•.ARY 


HE 


OEMS 


OF 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES, 


r 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS, 
i  866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congresa,  in  the  yeur  1862,  by 

TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Masse-* 
cliusetts. 


TWELFTH    EDITION. 


University  Press  • 

Welch,  Bigelow,  and  Company, 

Cambridge. 


A 


TO    MY   READERS. 

AY,  blame  me  not;  I  might  have  spared 

Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse, 
Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shared, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 


And  some  might  say,  "  Those  ruder  songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have  lost ; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost." 

When  those  I  wrote,  my  locks  were  brown, 
When  these  I  write  —  ah,  well-a-day ! 

The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 
Is  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May ! 

Go,  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 

Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust ; 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust  ? 


282116 


iv  TO  MY  READERS. 

0  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb, 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 
Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom  ! 
How  long  before  his  book  shall  die  1 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age,  — 

1  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 

And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 

Before  wre  sighed,  our  griefs  were  told ; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung ; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek,  — 
Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell 

That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 
How  thrushes  sing  or  lilacs  smell  ? 

Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 

Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderest  tone ; 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read  ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled,  — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed,  — 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build. 


TO  MY  READERS. 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find ; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach ; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms  ;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

APRIL  8,  1862. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

OETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY  i 

Cambridge  Churchyard     .        .  14 

Old  Ironsides         .        .        .        .  .      ai 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Last  Reader       .        .        .  •   *  .        .-      .-  .      35 

Our  Yankee  Girls         .        .        .        ...  37 

La  Grisette 38 

An  Evening  Thought  .        .        .                .        .  39 

A  Souvenir -.-,-.      40 

"  Qui  Vive ! " 41 

The  Wasp  and  the  Hornet       .        .  *     .        .  .      43 

From  a  Bachelor's  Private  Journal     .        .        .  44 

Stanzas .45 

The  Philosopher  to  his  Love        ....  46 

L'Inconnue      .        .        .        .        .        .        .  •  .      48 

The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily       ....  48 

Illustration  of  a  Picture 50 

The  Dying  Seneca 52, 

A  Portrait        .        .        ....        .        .  .53 

A  Roman  Aqueduct     .        .        .        .        .        .  54 

The  Last  Prophecy  of  Cassandra     .        .        .  .55 

To  a  Caged  Lion  .        .        .        .        .        .  57 

To  my  Companions  .        .        .        .        .        .  .58 

The  Last  Leaf 60 

To  a  Blank  Sheet  of  Paper      .        .                .  .61 

To  an  Insect ,        .  63 


viii  CONTENTS. 

The  Dilemma 65 

My  Aunt 66 

The  Toadstool  .        .        .        .        .        .        .  *.     .      68 

The  Meeting  of  the  Dryads         ,.  ^      .        .        .          69 

The  Mysterious  Visitor    .        «        .  '„     •        ...      7Z 

•^  The  Spectre  Pig  .        .        .  t.     .        .  f,     -  75 

Lines  by  a  Clerk       .        .        .        ...-.'.  ^      .      79 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian        .        .        .  81 

The  Poet's  Lot         .        .        .        .        •        •        •      82 

Daily  Trials 83 

Evening.  —  By  a  Tailor    .        .     :  •        •    •    •        .85 

,^-The  Dorchester  Giant  .        .        .  <     •        •  .      •  87 

To  the  Portrait  of  "  A  Gentleman"         .        .        .      89 

To  the  Portrait  of  "  A  Lady "      .        .        .        .  91 

The  Comet 9Z 

A  Noontide  Lyric 95 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oysterinan 96 

The  Music-Grinders 98 

The  Treadmill  Song          .        .        •        «...     101 
- —  The  September  Gale    .        .        .        .     •  .        ».        102 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous        -  . .       .  ^      .        .104 
The  Hot  Season    .        ...        .        .        .         105 

Departed  Days          .        ..       *        .        ,±      •        .     107 

The  Steamboat .         108 

The  Parting  Word  .       ...»       •    .    •'      •    II0 

Song «         "2 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Festival  .        .        .114 

Verses  for  After-Dinner 116 

Song         .        .        .        ...        ...        .119 

The  Only  Daughter 110 

Lexington         .        .        .        .       .       •        •        .122 

The  Island  Hunting-Song 12,5 

Questions  and  Answers    .        .     .  » .     .  »       •        .126 

Song «.       •         ia? 

Terpsichore .        •    12,9 

Urania:  a  Rhymed  Lesson '37 

-*    The  Pilgrim's  Vision       ....       «.       .       .    162 


CONTENTS.  ix 

A  Modest  Request 167 

Nux  Postcoenatica 174 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 179 

The  Stethoscope  Song 182 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem    .        .        .        .  186 

A  Song  of  Other  Days 188 

A  Sentiment        .      -  • 190 

IN  MANY  KEYS. 

Agnes 197 

The  Ploughman 219 

A  Poem  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Cemetery  221 

Pictures  from  Occasional  Poems  ...  225 

To  Governor  Swain 264 

To  an  English  Friend  ......  266 

Vignettes 267 

A  Poem  for  the  Meeting  of  the  American  Medical 

Association 278 

The  New  Eden 281 

A  Sentiment 286 

Semicentennial  Celebration  of  the  New  England 

Society 287 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday  .  .  .  .289 

Class  of  '29 291 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club  .  .  .  292 

For  the  Burns  Centennial  Celebration  .  .  294 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster 296 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College  .  299 

The  Parting  Song ,  .  304 

Boston  Common.  —  Three  Pictures  .  .  305 

Latter-Day  Warnings 307 

Prologue 308 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 311 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting,  with  Slight  Alterations 

by  a  Teetotaler 313 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece :  or  the  Wonderful  "One- 

HossShay" 314 


x  CONTENTS. 

^Estivation        .        .        .        .        ..-,••.        .  318 

Contentment 319 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy    .        .        •        .        .        .  322 

De  Sauty     ....  .....  327 

—  The  Old  Man  dreams 329 

Mare  Rubrum 331 

What  we  all  Think  .        .        .       ..        .        .        .333 

Spring  has  come 33$ 

A  Good  Time  going!          .        .        ...        .  337 

The  Last  Blossom 339 

"  The  Boys  '/ 341 

— .  The  Opening  of  the  Piano 343 

Midsummer      .        .  .        .        .        .        .  345 

A  Parting  Health.     To  J.  L.  Motley   ...  346 

A  Good-by.    To  J.  R.  Lowell 348 

At  a  Birthday  Festival.     To  J.  R.  Lowell   .        .  349 
A  Birthday  Tribute.     To  J.  F.  Clarke     .        .        .350 

The  Gray  Chief 352 

The  Last  Look 353 

In  Memory  of  Charles  Wentworth  Upham,  Junior  354 

Martha 356 

Sun  and  Shadow 357 

The  Chambered  Nautilus         .        .        .        .        .  358  < 

The  Two  Armies 359 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  National  Sanitary  Asso 
ciation        361 

Musa 363 

The  Voiceless       .......  366 

-*•  The  Crooked  Footpath 367 

The  Two  Streams 368 

Robinson  of  Ley  den        .        .        .        .        .        .369 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer  ....  371 

Avis          .        .        ...        .        .        .        .372 

Iris,  her  Book      .        .        .        .        .        .        .  375 

Under  the  Yiolets     .        .  .        .        .        .  377 

The  Promise         .        .        .        ...        .  378 

The  Living  Temple  .        .        .        .        .        .        .380 


CONTENTS.  xi 

Hymn  of  Trust    .        .  .     .      •  •        .        .        *  ?8z 

A  Sun-Day  Hymn 38z 

A  Voice  of  the  Loyal  North         ....  383 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline       .  385 

Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge     .        .  387 

International  Ode 388 

Freedom,  our  Queen    .        .        ...        .  389 

Army  Ilymn     .        .        .                 .        .        .        .  390 

Parting  Hymn 391 

The  Flower  of  Liberty 392, 

The  Sweet  Little  Man 393 

Vive  la  France  ! 396 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union          .        .        .  398 

Union  and  Liberty 401 

NOTES         ..       • 403 


POETRY: 
A   METRICAL    ESSAY. 


TO 

CHARLES  WENTWORTH  UPHAM, 

THE  FOLLOWING 

METRICAL   ESSAY 
IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


POETRY: 

A    METRICAL    ESSAX. 

GENES  of  my  youth  ! l  awake  its  slum* 

bering  fire  ! 
Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silen/ 

lyre! 

Kay  of  the  past,  if  yet  thou  canst  appear, 
Break  through  the  clouds  of  Fancy's  waning  year ; 
Chase  from  her  breast  the  thin  autumnal  snow, 
If  leaf  or  blossom  still  is  fresh  below  ! 

Long  have  I  wandered  ;  the  returning  tide 
Brought  back  an  exile  to  his  cradle's  side ; 
And  as  my  bark  her  time-worn  flag  unrolled, 
To  greet  the  land-breeze  with  its  faded  fold, 
So,  in  remembrance  of  my  boyhood's  time, 
I  lift  these  ensigns  of  neglected  rhyme  ;  — 
O  more  than  blest,  that,  all  my  wanderings  through, 
My  anchor  falls  where  first  my  pennons  flew  I 


THE  morning  light,  which  rains  its  quivering 

beams 
Wide  o'er  the  plains,  the  summits,  and  the  streams, 


6  POETRY: 

In  one  broad  blaze  expands  its  golden  glow 
On  all  that  answers  to  its  glance  below ; 
Yet,  changed  on  earth,  each  far  reflected  ray 
Braids  with  fresh  hues  the  shining  brow  of  day ; 
Now,  clothed  in  blushes  by  the  painted  flowers, 
Tracks  on  their  cheeks  the  rosy-fingered  hours ; 
Now,  lost  in  shades,  whose  dark  entangled  leaves 
Drip  at  the  noontide  from  their  pendent  eaves, 
Fades  into  gloom,  or  gleams  in  light  again 
From  every  dew-drop  on  the  jewelled  plain. 

We,  like  the  leaf,  the  summit,  or  the  wave, 
Reflect  the  light  our  common  nature  gave, 
But  every  sunbeam,  falling  from  her  throne, 
Wears  on  our  hearts  some  coloring  of  our  own ; 
Chilled  in  the  slave,  and  burning  in  the  free, 
Like  the  sealed  cavern  by  the  sparkling  sea ; 
Lost,  like  the  lightning  in  the  sullen  clod, 
Or  shedding  radiance,  like  the  smiles  of  God, 
Pure,  pale  in  Virtue,  as  the  star  above, 
Or  quivering  roseate  on  the  leaves  of  Love ; 
Glaring  like  noontide,  where  it  glows  upon 
Ambition's  sands,  —  the  desert  in  the  sun ; 
Or  soft  suffusing  o'er  the  varied  scene 
Life's  common  coloring,  —  intellectual  green. 

Thus  Heaven,  repeating  its  material  plan, 
Arched  over  all  the  rainbow  mind  of  man ; 
But  he,  who,  blind  to  universal  laws, 
Sees  but  effects,  unconscious  of  their  cause,  — - 
Believes  each  image  in  itself  is  bright, 
Not  robed  in  drapery  of  reflected  light,  — 
Is  like  the  rustic,  who,  amidst  his  toil, 
Has  found  some  crystal  in  his  meagre  soil, 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  7 

And,  lost  in  rapture,  thinks  for  him  alone 
Earth  worked  her  wonders  on  the  sparkling  stone, 
Nor  dreams  that  Nature,  with  as  nice  a  line, 
Carved   countless   angles   through   the   boundless 
mine. 

Thus  err  the  many,  who,  entranced  to  find 
Unwonted  lustre  in  some  clearer  mind, 
Believe  that  Genius  sets  the  laws  at  naught 
Which  chain  the  pinions  of  our  wildest  thought; 
Untaught  to  measure,  with  the  eye  of  art, 
The  wandering  fancy  or  the  wayward  heart ; 
Who  match  the  little  only  with  the  less, 
And  gaze  in  rapture  at  its  slight  excess, 
Proud  of  a  pebble,  as  the  brightest  gem 
Whose  light  might  crown  an  emperor's  diadem. 

And,  most  of  all,  the  pure  ethereal  fire, 
Which  seems  to  radiate  from  the  poet's  lyre, 
Is  to  the  world  a  mystery  and  a  charm, 
An  JEgis  wielded  on  a  mortal's  arm, 
While  Reason  turns  her  dazzled  eye  away, 
And  bows  her  sceptre  to  her  subject's  sway ; 
And  thus  the  poet,  clothed  with  godlike  state, 
Usurped  his  Maker's  title  —  to  create  ; 
He,   whose  thoughts   differing   not  in   shape,   but 

dress, 

What  others  feel,  more  fitly  can  express, 
Sits  like  the  maniac  on  his  fancied  throne, 
Peeps  through  the  bars,  and  calls  the  world  his  own. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense ; 
The  rudest  savage  roaming  through  the  wild, 


g  POETRY: 

The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child, 
The  infant  listening  to  the  warbling  bird, 
The  mother  smiling  at  its  half-formed  word  ; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at  large, 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like  charge ; 
The  freeman,  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  turrets  of  the  land ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down  the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "  Auld  lang  syne  " ; 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim, 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  hymn ; 
The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier ; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered  hair ;  — 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 
Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's  name, 
While,  unembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer  dies, 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs ! 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind, 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind  ; 
If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky ; 
If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 
Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams  ; 
If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest  verge ;  — » 
If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
Of  rapture  tingling  with  its  hectic  glow, 
Then  all  are  poets  ;  and,  if  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were  told, 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  9 

Each  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave  ! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones  that  the  spirit  trembled  when  it  heard ; 
To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 
No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess  ; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has  taught 
Ourselves,  reflected  in  the  sculptured  thought ;  — 
If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred  name ; 
Then  none  are  poets,  save  the  saints  on  high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words  deny ! 

But  though  to  none  is  granted  to  reveal, 
In  perfect  semblance,  all  that  each  may  feel, 
As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions  move 
In  every  line,  where  kindling  fancy  throws 
The  gleam  of  pleasures,  or  the  shade  of  woes. 

When,  schooled  by  time,  the  stately  queen  of  art 
Had  smoothed  the  pathways  leading  to  the  heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn  tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable  thrown, 
The  wreaths  of  heaven  descended  on  her  shrine, 
And  wondering  earth  proclaimed  the  Muse  divine. 
Yet,  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  profane 
The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
How  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil  to  find 
What  slender  threads  can  chain  the  mighty  mind  ! 


io  POETRY: 

Poets,  like  painters,  their  machinery  claim, 
And  verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the  frame ; 
Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling  car, 
Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word ; 
From  Saxon  lips  Anacreon's  numbers  glide, 
As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,  fresh  transfused,  the  Iliad  thrills  again 
From  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain  ! 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Rings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they  meet ; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows, 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
"Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession  pour, 
Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore ; 
The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which  lives  immortal  as  the  verse  of  Gray, 
In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song ; 
The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl ! 2 

Bom  with  mankind,  with  man's  expanded  range 
And'  varying  fates  the  poet's  numbers  change ; 
Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 
As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace, 
Slow  wandering  forth,  the  patriarchal  race. 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  u 


I. 

WHEN  the  green  earth,  beneath  the  zephyr's  wing, 
Wears  on  her  breast  the  varnished  buds  of  Spring ; 
When  the  loosed  current,  as  its  folds  uncoil, 
Slides  in  the  channels  of  the  mellowed  soil ; 
When  the  young  hyacinth  returns  to  seek 
The  air  and  sunshine  with  her  emerald  beak  ; 
When  the  light  snowdrops,  starting  from  their  cells, 
Hang  each  pagoda  with  its  silver  bells  ; 
When  the  frail  willow  twines  her  trailing  bow 
With  pallid  leaves  that  sweep  the  soil  below ; 
When  the  broad  elm,  sole  empress  of  the  plain, 
Whose  circling  shadow  speaks  a  century's  reign, 
Wreathes  in  the  clouds  her  regal  diadem,  — 
A  forest  waving  on  a  single  stem ;  — 
Then  mark  the  poet ;  though  to  him  unknown 
The  quaint-mouthed  titles,  such  as  scholars  own, 
See  how  his  eye  in  ecstasy  pursues 
The  steps  of  Nature  tracked  in  radiant  hues ; 
Nay,  in  thyself,  whatever  may  be  thy  fate, 
Pallid  with  toil,  or  surfeited  with  state, 
Mark  how  thy  fancies,  with  the  vernal  rose, 
Awake,  all  sweetness,  from  their  long  repose ; 
Then  turn  to  ponder  o'er  the  classic  page, 
Traced  with  the  idyls  of  a  greener  age, 
And  learn  the  instinct  which  arose  to  warm 
Art's  earliest  essay,  and  her  simplest  form. 

To  themes  like  these  her  narrow  path  confined 
The  first-born  impulse  moving  in  the  mind ; 
In  vales  unshaken  by  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Where  peaceful  Labor  tills  his  fertile  ground, 


12,  POETRY: 

The  silent  changes  of  the  rolling  years, 
Marked  on  the  soil,  or  dialled  on  the  spheres, 
The  crested  forests  and  the  colored  flowers, 
The  dewy  grottos  and  the  blushing  bowers, 
These,  and  their  guardians,  who,  with  liquid  names, 
Strephons  and  Chloes,  melt  in  mutual  flames, 
Woo  the  young  Muses  from  their  mountain  shade, 
To  make  Arcadias  in  the  lonely  glade. 

Nor  think  they  visit  only  with  their  smiles 
The  fabled  valleys  and  Elysian  isles ; 
He  who  is  wearied  of  his  village  plain 
May  roam  the  Edens  of  the  world  in  vain. 
'T  is  not  the  star-crowned  cliff,  the  cataract's  flow, 
The  softer  foliage,  or  the  greener  glow, 
The  lake  of  sapphire,  or  the  spar-hung  cave, 
The  brighter  sunset,  or  the  broader  wave, 
Can  warm  his  heart  whom  every  wind  has  blown 
To  every  shore,  forgetful  of  his  own. 

Home  of  our  childhood  !  how  affection  clings 
And  hovers  round  thee  with  her  seraph  wings ! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn  brown, 
Than  fairest  summits  which  the  cedars  crown ! 
Sweeter  the  fragrance  of  thy  summer  breeze 
Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas  ! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's  sigh, 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  blue  sky  ! 

O  happiest  they,  whose  early  love  unchanged, 
Hopes  undissolved,  and  friendship  unestranged, 
Tired  of  their  wanderings,  still  can  deign  to  see 
Love,  hopes,  and  friendship,  centering  all  in  thee  ! 


A  METRICAL   ESSAY.  13 

And  thou,  my  village !  as  again  I  tread 
Amidst  thy  living,  and  above  thy  dead ; 
Though  some  fair  playmates  guard  with  chaster 

fears 

Their  cheeks,  grown  holy  with  the  lapse  of  years  ; 
Though  with  the  dust  some  reverend  locks  may 

blend, 
Where  life's  last  mile-stone  marks  the  journey's 

end; 

On  every  bud  the  changing  year  recalls, 
The  brightening  glance  of  morning  memory  falls, 
Still  following  onward  as  the  months  unclose 
The  balmy  lilac  or  the  bridal  rose  ; 
And  still  shall  follow,  till  they  sink  once  more 
Beneath  the  snow-drifts  of  the  frozen  shore, 
As  when  my  bark,  long  tossing  in  the  gale, 
Furled  in  her  port  her  tempest-rended  sail ! 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ?     Can  a  simple  lay, 
Flung  on  thy  bosom  like  a  girl's  bouquet, 
Do  more  than  deck  thee  for  an  idle  hour, 
Then  fall  unheeded,  fading  like  the  flower  ? 
Yet,  when  I  trod,  with  footsteps  wild  and  free, 
The  crackling  leaves  beneath  yon  linden-tree, 
Panting  from  play,  or  dripping  from  the  stream, 
How  bright  the  visions  of  my  boyish  dream ! 
Or,  modest  Charles,  along  thy  broken  edge, 
Black  with  soft  ooze  and  fringed  with  arrowy  sedge, 
As  once  I  wandered  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  recking  sandal  and  superfluous  gun ; 
How  oft,  as  Fancy  whispered  in  the  gale, 
Thou  wast  the  Avon  of  her  flattering  tale  ! 
Ye  hills,  whose  foliage,  fretted  on  the  skies, 
Prints  shadowy  arches  on  their  evening  dyes, 


I4  POETRY: 

How  should  my  song  with  holiest  charm  invest 
Each  dark  ravine  and  forest-lifting-  crest ! 
How  clothe  in  beauty  each  familiar  scene, 
Till  all  was  classic  on  my  native  green  ! 

As   the   drained   fountain,   filled   with   autumn 

leaves, 

The  field  swept  naked  of  its  garnered  sheaves ; 
So  wastes  at  noon  the  promise  of  our  dawn, 
The  springs  all  choking,  and  the  harvest  gone. 

Yet  hear  the  lay  of  one  whose  natal  star 
Still  seemed  the  brightest  when  it  shone  afar  ; 
Whose  cheek,  grown  pallid  with  ungracious  toil, 
Glows  in  the  welcome  of  his  parent  soil ; 
And  ask  no  garlands  sought  beyond  the  tide, 
But  take  the  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 


OUR  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire  ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 
Their  vigil  on  the  green ; 

One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 
The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 


A  METRICAL  E8BAT.  15 

And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 
Their  music's  mingling  waves, 

They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 
Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone  ; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share  ;  — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air  ;  — 
The  rattling  cord,  —  the  rolling  stone,  — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Hung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years  ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 
See  where  our  sires  laid  down 


1 6  POETRY: 

Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides. 
The  patriarchs  of  the  town ; 

Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 
A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 

All  that  a  century  left  above, 
Go,  read  it  in  an  hour  ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death  ;  yet,  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free  ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square, 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there ;  — 
Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone,3 

The  empty  urn  of  pride  ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

What  need  of  more  beside  7 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  ? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  17 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom  ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ;  — 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  I 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  wares 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone  ;  — 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 

2 


1 8  POETRY: 

May  sweetest  dews  and  wannest  ray 
Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers  ;  — 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


II. 


BUT  times  were  changed ;  the  torch  of  terror  came, 
To  light  the  summits  with  the  beacon's  flame  ; 
The  streams  ran  crimson,  the  tall  mountain  pines 
Hose  a  new  forest  o'er  embattled  lines  ; 
The  bloodless  sickle  lent  the  warrior's  steel, 
The  harvest  bowed  beneath  his  chariot  wheel ; 
Where  late  the  wood-dove  sheltered  her  repose 
The  raven  waited  for  the  conflict's  close ; 
The  cuirassed  sentry  walked  his  sleepless  round 
Where  Daphne  smiled  or  Amaryllis  frowned ; 
Where  timid  minstrels  sung  their  blushing  charms, 
Some  wild  Tyrta3us  called  aloud,  "  To  arms  ! " 

When  Glory  wakes,  when  fiery  spirits  leap, 
Roused  by  her  accents  from  their  tranquil  sleep, 
The  ray  that  flashes  from  the  soldier's  crest 
Lights,  as  it  glances,  in  the  poet's  breast ;  — 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  19 

Not  in  pale  dreamers,  whose  fantastic  lay 
Toys  with  smooth  trifles  like  a  child  at  play, 
But  men,  who  act  the  passions  they  inspire, 
Who  wave  the  sabre  as  they  sweep  the  lyre  ! 

Ye  mild  enthusiasts,  whose  pacific  frowns 
Arc  lost  like  dew-drops  caught  in  burning  towns, 
Pluck  as  ye  will  the  radiant  plumes  of  fame, 
Break  Caesar's  bust  to  make  yourselves  a  name ; 
But,  if  your  country  bares  the  avenger's  blade 
For  wrongs  unpunished,  or  for  debts  unpaid, 
When  the  roused  nation  bids  her  armies  form, 
And  screams  her  eagle  through  the  gathering  storm, 
When  from  your  ports  the  bannered  frigate  rides, 
Her  black  bows  scowling  to  the  crested  tides, 
Your  hour  has  past ;  in  vain  your  feeble  cry, 
As  the  babe's  wailings  to  the  thundering  sky  ! 

Scourge  of  mankind !  with  all  the  dread  array 
That  wraps  in  wrath  thy  desolating  way, 
As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering  sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be. 
Alike  thy  tocsin  has  the  power  to  charm 
The  toil-knit  sinews  of  the  rustic's  arm, 
Or  swell  the  pulses  in  the  poet's  veins, 
And  bid  the  nations  tremble  at  his  strains. 

The  city  slept  beneath  the  moonbeam's  glance, 
Her  white  walls  gleaming  through  the  vines  of 

France, 

And  all  was  hushed,  save  where  the  footsteps  fell, 
On  some  high  tower,  of  midnight  sentinel. 
But  one  still  watched ;  no  self-encircled  woes 
Chased  from  his  lids  the  angel  of  repose ; 


ao  POETRY: 

He  watched,  he  wept,  for  thoughts  of  bitter  years 
Bowed  his  dark  lashes,  wet  with  burning  tears  : 
His  country's  sufferings  and  her  children's  shame 
Streamed  o'er  his  memory  like  a  forest's  flame, 
Each  treasured  insult,  each  remembered  wrong, 
Rolled  through  his  heart  and  kindled  into  song  : 
His  taper  faded  ;  and  the  morning  gales 
Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song  of  Marseilles !  * 

Now,  while  around  the  smiles  of  Peace  expand, 
And  Plenty's  wreaths  festoon  the  laughing  land; 
While  France  ships  outward  her  reluctant  ore, 
And  half  our  navy  basks  upon  the  shore  ; 
From  ruder  themes  our  meek-eyed  Muses  turn 
To  crown  with  roses  their  enamelled  urn. 

If  e'er  again  return  those  awful  days 
Whose  clouds  were  crimsoned  with  the  beacon'g 

blaze, 

Whose  grass  was  trampled  by  the  soldier's  heel, 
Whose  tides  were  reddened  round  the  rushing  keel, 
God  grant  some  lyre  may  wake  a  nobler  strain 
To  rend  the  silence  of  our  tented  plain ! 
When  Gallia's  flag  its  triple  fold  displays, 
Her  marshalled  legions  peal  the  Marseillaise  ; 
When  round  the  German  close  the  war-clouds  dim, 
Far  through  their  shadows  floats  his  battle-hymn ; 
When,  crowned  with  joy,  the  camps  of  England  ring, 
A  thousand  voices  shout,  "  God  save  the  King ! " 
When  victory  follows  with  our  eagle's  glance, 
Our  nation's  anthem  is  a  country  dance ! 5 

Some  prouder  muse,  when  comes  the  hour  at  last, 
May  shake  our  hill-sides  with  her  bugle-blast ; 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  21 

Not  ours  the  task ;  but  since  the  lyric  dress 

Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightliness, 

Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  perchance,  have 

seen 

In  stale  gazette,  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 
There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  profane 
The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain ; G 
And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 
Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred  name, 
Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  country's  tides 
Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  Old  Ironsides  ! 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  summer's  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school-boy  scorn. 


AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 


POETRY: 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 


III. 

WHEN  florid  Peace  resumed  her  golden  reign, 
And  arts  revived,  and  valleys  bloomed  again ; 
While  War  still  panted  on  his  broken  blade, 
Once  more  the  Muse  her  heavenly  wing  essayed. 
Rude  was  the  song ;  some  ballad,  stern  and  wild, 
Lulled  the  light  slumbers  of  the  soldier's  child ; 
Or  young  romancer,  with  his  threatening  glance 
And  fearful  fables  of  his  bloodless  lance, 
Scared  the  soft  fancy  of  the  clinging  girls, 
Whose  snowy  fingers  smoothed  his  raven  curls. 
But  when  long  years  the  stately  form  had  bent, 
And  faithless  memory  her  illusions  lent, 
So  vast  the  outlines  of  Tradition  grew, 
That  History  wondered  at  the  shapes  she  drew, 
And  veiled  at  length  their  too  ambitious  hues 
Beneath  the  pinions  of  the  Epic  Muse. 

Far  swept  her  wing;   for  stormier  days  had 

brought 
With  darker  passions  deeper  tides  of  thought. 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  23 

The  camp's  harsh  tumult  and  the  conflict's  glow. 
The  thrill  of  triumph  and  the  gasp  of  woe, 
The  tender  parting  and  the  glad  return, 
The  festal  banquet  and  the  funeral  urn,  — 
And  all  the  drama  which  at  once  uprears 
Its  spectral  shadows  through  the  clash  of  spears, 
From  camp  and  field  to  echoing  verse  transferred, 
Swelled  the  proud  song  that  listening  nations  heard. 

Why  floats  the  amaranth  in  eternal  bloom 
O'er  Ilium's  turrets  and  Achilles'  tomb  ? 
Why  lingers  fancy,  where  the  sunbeams  smile 
On  Circe's  gardens  and  Calypso's  isle  ? 
Why  follows  memory  to  the  gate  of  Troy 
Her  plumed  defender  and  his  trembling  boy  ? 
Lo  the  blind  dreamer,  kneeling  on  the  sand, 
To  trace  these  records  with  his  doubtful  hand ; 
In  fabled  tones  his  own  emotion  flows, 
And  other  lips  repeat  his  silent  woes ; 
In  Hector's  infant  see  the  babes  that  shun 
Those  deathlike  eyes,  unconscious  of  the  sun, 
Or  in  his  hero  hear  himself  implore, 
"  Give  me  to  see,  and  Ajax  asks  no  more !  " 

Thus  live  undying  through  the  lapse  of  time 
The  solemn  legends  of  the  warrior's  clime ; 
Like  Egypt's  pyramid,  or  Psestum's  fane, 
They  stand  the  heralds  of  the  voiceless  plain ; 
Yet  not  like  them,  for  Time,  by  slow  degrees, 
Saps  the  gray  stone,  and  wears  the  chiselled  frieze. 
And  Isis  sleeps  beneath  her  subject  Nile, 
And  crumbled  Neptune  strews  his  Dorian  pile ; 
But  Art's  fair  fabric,  strengthening  as  it  rears 
Its  laurelled  columns  through  the  mist  of  years, 


24  POETRY: 

As  the  blue  arches  of  the  bending  skies 
Still  gird  the  torrent,  following  as  it  flies, 
Spreads,  with  the  surges  bearing  on  mankind, 
Its  starred  pavilion  o'er  the  tides  of  mind  ! 

In  vain  the  patriot  asks  some  lofty  lay 
To  dress  in  state  our  wars  of  yesterday. 
The  classic  days,  those  mothers  of  romance, 
That  roused  a  nation  for  a  woman's  glance ; 
The  age  of  mystery  with  its  hoarded  power, 
That  girt  the  tyrant  in  his  storied  tower, 
Have  past  and  faded  like  a  dream  of  youth, 
And  riper  eras  ask  for  history's  truth. 

On  other  shores,  above  their  mouldering  towns, 
In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns, 
Pride  in  its  aisles,  and  paupers  at  the  door, 
Which  feeds  the  beggars  whom  it  fleeced  of  yore. 
Simple  and  frail,  our  lowly  temples  throw 
Their  slender  shadows  on  the  paths  below ; 
Scarce  steal  the  winds,  that  sweep  his  woodland  tracks, 
The  larch's  perfume  from  the  settler's  axe, 
Ere,  like  a  vision  of  the  morning  air, 
His  slight-framed  steeple  marks  the  house  of  prayer ; 
Its  planks  all  reeking,  and  its  paint  undried, 
Its  rafters  sprouting  on  the  shady  side, 
It  sheds  the  raindrops  from  its  shingled  eaves, 
Ere  its  green  brothers  once  have  changed  their 
leaves. 

Yet  Faith's  pure  hymn,  beneath  its  shelter  rude, 
Breathes  out  as  sweetly  to  the  tangled  wood, 
As  where  the  rays  through  blazing  oriels  pour 
On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor ;  — 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  25 

Heaven  asks  no  surplice  round  the  heart  that  feels, 
And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 

Thus  on  the  soil  the  patriot's  knee  should  bend, 
Which  holds  the  dust  once  living  to  defend ; 
Where'er  the  hireling  shrinks  before  the  free, 
Each  pass  becomes  "  a  new  Thermopylae  "  ! 
Where'er  the  battles  of  the  brave  are  won, 
There  every  mountain  "  looks  on  Marathon  "  ! 

Our  fathers  live ;  they  guard  in  glory  still 
The  grass-grown  bastions  of  the  fortressed  hill ; 
Still  ring  the  echoes  of  the  trampled  gorge, 
With  God  and  Freedom  !  England  and  Saint  George! 
The  royal  cipher  on  the  captured  gun 
Mocks  the  sharp  night-dews  and  the  blistering  sun ! 
The  red-cross  banner  shades  its  captor's  bust, 
Its  folds  still  loaded  with  the  conflict's  dust ; 
The  drum,  suspended  by  its  tattered  marge, 
Once  rolled  and  rattled  to  the  Hessian's  charge ; 
The  stars  have  floated  from  Britannia's  mast, 
The  redcoat's  trumpets  blown  the  rebel's  blast. 

Point  to  the  summits  where  the  brave  have  bled, 
Where  every  village  claims  its  glorious  dead ; 
Say,  when  their  bosoms  met  the  bayonet's  shock, 
Their  only  corselet  was  the  rustic  frock ; 
Say,  when  they  mustered  to  the  gathering  horn, 
The  titled  chieftain  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 
Yet,  when  their  leader  bade  his  lines  advance, 
No  musket  wavered  in  the  lion's  glance ; 
Say,  when  they  fainted  in  the  forced  retreat, 
They  tracked  the  snow-drifts  with  their  bleeding 
feet, 


26  POETRY: 

Yet  still  their  banners,  tossing  in  the  blast, 
Bore  Ever  Ready?  faithful  to  the  last, 
Through  storm  and  battle,  till  they  waved  again 
On  Yorktown's  hills  and  Saratoga's  plain ! 

Then,  if  so  fierce  the  insatiate  patriot's  flame, 
Truth  looks  too  pale,  and  history  seems  too  tame, 
Bid  him  await  some  new  Columbiad's  page, 
To  gild  the  tablets  of  an  iron  age, 
And  save  his  tears,  which  yet  may  fall  upon 
Some  fabled  field,  some  fancied  Washington ! 


IV. 

BUT  once  again,  from  their  JEolian  cave, 
The  winds  of  Genius  wandered  on  the  wave. 
Tired  of  the  scenes  the  timid  pencil  drew, 
Sick  of  the  notes  the  sounding  clarion  blew ; 
Sated  with  heroes  who  had  worn  so  long 
The  shadowy  plumage  of  historic  song ; 
The  new-born  poet  left  the  beaten  course, 
To  track  the  passions  to  their  living  source. 

Then  rose  the  Drama ;  —  and  the  world  admired 
Her  varied  page  with  deeper  thought  inspired ; 
Bound  to  no  clime,  for  Passion's  throb  is  one 
In  Greenland's  twilight  or  in  India's  sun  ; 
Born  for  no  age,  —  for  all  the  thoughts  that  roll 
In  the  dark  vortex  of  the  stormy  soul, 
Unchained  in  song,  no  freezing  years  can  tame ; 
God  gave  them  birth,  and  man  is  still  the  same.  ; 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  27 

So  full  on  life  her  magic  mirror  shone, 
Her  sister  Arts  paid  tribute  to  her  throne ; 
One  reared  her  temple,  one  her  canvas  warmed, 
And  Music  thrilled,  while  Eloquence  informed. 
The  weary  rustic  left  his  stinted  task 
For  smiles  and  tears,  the  dagger  and  the  mask ; 
The  sage,  turned  scholar,  half  forgot  his  lore, 
To  be  the  woman  he  despised  before ; 
O'er  sense  and  thought  she  threw  her  golden  chain, 
And  Time,  the  anarch,  spares  her  deathless  reign. 

Thus  lives  Medea,  in  our  tamer  age, 
As  when  her  buskin  pressed  the  Grecian  stage ; 
Not  in  the  cells  where  frigid  learning  delves 
In  Aldine  folios  mouldering  on  their  shelves  ; 
But  breathing,  burning  in  the  glittering  throng, 
Whose  thousand  bravos  roll  untired  along, 
Circling  and  spreading  through  the  gilded  halls, 
From  London's  galleries  to  San  Carlo's  walls ! 

Thus  shall  he  live  whose  more  than  mortal  name 
Mocks  with  its  ray  the  pallid  torch  of  Fame ; 
So  proudly  lifted,  that  it  seems  afar 
No  earthly  Pharos,  but  a  heavenly  star  ; 
Who,  unconfined  to  Art's  diurnal  bound, 
Girds  her  whole  zodiac  in  his  naming  round, 
And  leads  the  passions,  like  the  orb  that  guides, 
From  pole  to  pole,  the  palpitating  tides ! 


a8  POETRY: 


V. 


THOUGH  round  the  Muse  the  robe  of  song  ia 

thrown, 

Think  not  the  poet  lives  in  verse  alone. 
Long  ere  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor  taught 
The  lifeless  stone  to  mock  the  living  thought ; 
Long  ere  the  painter  bade  the  canvas  glow 
With  every  line  the  forms  of  beauty  know ; 
Long  ere  the  Iris  of  the  Muses  threw 
On  every  leaf  its  own  celestial  hue ; 
In  fable's  dress  the  breath  of  genius  poured, 
And  warmed  the  shapes  that  later  times  adored. 

Untaught  by  Science  how  to  forge  the  keys, 
That  loose  the  gates  of  Nature's  mysteries ; 
Unschooled  by  Faith,  who,  with  her  angel  tread, 
Leads  through  the  labyrinth  with  a  single  thread. 
His  fancy,  hovering  round  her  guarded  tower, 
Rained  through  its  bars  like  Danae's  golden  shower. 

He  spoke ;  the  sea-nymph  answered  from  her  cave : 
He  called ;  the  naiad  left  her  mountain  wave : 
He  dreamed  of  beauty  ;  lo,  amidst  his  dream, 
Narcissus  mirrored  in  the  breathless  stream  ; 
And  night's  chaste  empress,  in  her  bridal  play, 
Laughed  through  the  foliage  where  Endymion  lay ; 
And  ocean  dimpled,  as  the  languid  swell 
Kissed  the  red  lip  of  Cytherea's  shell : 
Of  power,  —  Bellona  swept  the  crimson  field, 
And  blue-eyed  Pallas  shook  her  Gorgon  shield  ; 
O'er  the  hushed  waves  their  mightier  monarch  drove, 
And  Ida  trembled  to  the  tread  of  Jove ! 


A   METRICAL  ESSAY.  29 

So  every  grace  that  plastic  language  knows 
To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn  words  to  simplest  thoughts  con 
fined 

Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicer  mind ; 
Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits  into  rainbows,  shooting  far  away ;  — 
From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense,  it  flies, 
And  through  all  nature  links  analogies ; 
He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon ! 

There  is  a  race,  which  cold,  ungenial  skies 
Breed  from  decay,  as  fungous  growths  arise ; 
Though  dying  fast,  yet  springing  fast  again, 
Which  still  usurps  an  unsubstantial  reign. 
With  frames  too  languid  for  the  charms  of  sense, 
And  minds  worn  down  with  action  too  intense ; 
Tired  of  a  world  whose  joys  they  never  knew, 
Themselves  deceived,  yet  thinking  all  untrue ; 
Scarce  men  without,  and  less  than  girls  within, 
Sick  of  their  life  before  its  cares  begin ;  — 
The  dull  disease,  which  drains  their  feeble  hearts, 
To  life's  decay  some  hectic  thrills  imparts, 
And  lends  a  force,  which,  like  the  maniac's  power, 
Pays  with  blank  years  the  frenzy  of  an  hour. 

And  this  is  Genius  !     Say,  does  Heaven  degrade 
The  manly  frame,  for  health,  for  action  made  ? 
Break  down  the  sinews,  rack  the  brow  with  pains, 
Blanch  the  bright  cheek,  and  drain  the  purple  veins, 
To  clothe  the  mind  with  more  extended  sway, 
Thus  faintly  struggling  in  degenerate  clay  ? 


3o  POETRY: 

No  !  gentle  maid,  too  ready  to  admire, 
Though  false  its  notes,  the  pale  enthusiast's  lyre ; 
If  this  be  genius,  though  its  bitter  springs 
Glowed  like  the  morn  beneath  Aurora's  wings, 
Seek  not  the  source  whose  sullen  bosom  feeds 
But  fruitless  flowers,  and  dark,  envenomed  weeds. 

But,  if  so  bright  the  dear  illusion  seems, 
Thou  wouldst  be  partner  of  thy  poet's  dreams, 
And  hang  in  rapture  on  his  bloodless  charms, 
Or  die,  like  Raphael,  in  his  angel  arms ; 
Go,  and  enjoy  thy  blessed  lot,  —  to  share 
In  Cowper's  gloom,  or  Chatterton's  despair ! 

Not  such  were  they,  whom,  wandering  o'er  the 

waves, 

I  looked  to  meet,  but  only  found  their  graves ; 
If  friendship's  smile,  the  better  part  of  fame, 
Should  lend  my  song  the  only  wreath  I  claim, 
Whose  voice  would  greet  me  with  a  sweeter  tone, 
Whose  living  hand  more  kindly  press  my  own, 
Than  theirs,  —  could  Memory,  as  her  silent  tread 
Prints  the  pale  flowers  that  blossom  o'er  the  dead, 
Those  breathless  lips,  now  closed  in  peace,  restore, 
Or  wake  those  pulses  hushed  to  beat  no  more  ? 

Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar ! 8  I  can  see  thee  now, 
The  first  young  laurels  on  thy  pallid  brow, 
O'er  thy  slight  figure  floating  lightly  down 
In  graceful  folds  the  academic  gown, 
On  thy  curled  lip  the  classic  lines,  that  taught 
How  nice  the  mind  that  sculptured  them  with  thought, 
And  triumph  glistening  in  the  clear  blue  eye, 
Too  bright  to  live,  —  but  oh.  too  fair  to  die ! 


A  METRICAL  ESSAY.  31 

And  thou,  dear  friend,9  whom  Science  still  de 
plores, 

And  love  still  mourns,  on  ocean-severed  shores, 
Though  the  bleak  forest  twice  has  bowed  with  snow, 
Since  thou  wast  laid  its  budding  leaves  below, 
Thine  image  mingles  with  my  closing  strain, 
As  when  we  wandered  by  the  turbid  Seine, 
Both  blest  with  hopes,  which  revelled,  bright  and  free, 
On  all  we  longed,  or  all  we  dreamed  to  be ; 
To  thee  the  amaranth  and  the  cypress  fell,  — 
And  I  was  spared  to  breathe  this  last  farewell ! 

But  lived  there  one  in  unremembered  days, 
Or  lives  there  still,  who  spurns  the  poet's  bays, 
Whose  fingers,  dewy  from  Castalia's  springs, 
Rest  on  the  lyre,  yet  scorn  to  touch  the  strings  ? 
Who  shakes  the  senate  with  the  silver  tone 
The  groves  of  Pindus  might  have  sighed  to  own  ? 
Have  such  e'er  been  ?    Remember  Canning's  name ! 
Do  such  still  live  ?     Let  "  Alaric's  Dirge  "  pro 
claim  ! 

Immortal  Art !  where'er  the  rounded  sky 
Bends  o'er  the  cradle  where  thy  children  lie, 
Their  home  is  earth,  their  herald  every  tongue 
Whose  accents  echo  to  the  voice  that  sung. 
One  leap  of  Ocean  scatters  on  the  sand 
The  quarried  bulwarks  of  the  loosening  land ; 
One  thrill  of  earth  dissolves  a  century's  toil 
Strewed  like  the  leaves  that  vanish  in  the  soil  J 
One  hill  overflows,  and  cities  sink  below, 
Their  marbles  splintering  in  the  lava's  glow  ; 
But  one  sweet  tone,  scarce  whispered  to  the  air, 
From  shore  to  shore  the  blasts  of  ages  bear ; 


32  POETRY. 

One  humble  name,  which  oft,  perchance,  has  borne 
The  tyrant's  mockery  and  the  courtier's  scorn, 
Towers  o'er  the  dust  of  earth's  forgotten  graves, 
As  once,  emerging  through  the  waste  of  waves, 
The  rocky  Titan,  round  whose  shattered  spear 
Coiled  the  last  whirlpool  of  the  drowning  sphere  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 


THE   LAST   READER. 

SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree, 

And  read  my  own  sweet  songs ; 
Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 

Each  humble  line  prolongs 
A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away, 
But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf, 

That  some  dear  girl  has  given ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 

Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  care-worn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves. 


36  THE  LAST  READER. 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 

Oblivion's  insect  weaves ; 
Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 
It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 
On  these  neglected  songs, 

Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 
My  opening  bosom  wrongs  ; 

For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 

A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  away, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before, 
Is  naught  but  common  clay ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 

For  memory  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 
My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 

Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 
In  silence  and  alone, 

Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing 

Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more ! 


OUR   YANKEE  GIRLS. 


OUR   YANKEE    GIRLS. 


37 


ET  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 
If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 
"With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose ; 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil, 

Or  wave  Circassians  curls, 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  — 
Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 

Love's  thousand  chords  so  well ; 
The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell ; 
And  England's  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame, 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls ;  — 
Ye  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls  ? 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born  ?  — 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ? 
They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  freeborn  Yankee  girls  ! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines 
Wave  their  dark  arms  above 

The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 
To  warm  the  wilds  with  love, 


38  LA   GRISETTE. 

From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls, 
That  stars  and  stripes  are  streaming  o'er,  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls  ! 

LA   GEISETTE. 

H  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 
Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  past, 

I  said,  "  We  meet  again,"  — 
I  dreamed  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 

And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak, 
Their  gentler  signs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek, 
The  trailing  of  thy  long  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  returned,  more  sweet,  more  fair ; 

0  had  we  met  again  ! 

I  walked  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 
The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 

I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 
And  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 

I  watched  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

1  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  prayed ; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 


AN  EVENING   THOUGHT.  39 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

"When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai, 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain ;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When  years  have  clothed  the  line  in  moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  withered,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise ! 


AN  EVENING   THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 

F  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep  red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody, 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain, 
Have  whispered  that  my  youth's  bright  flood 
Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 

If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 
Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 


40  A   SOUVENIR. 

Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 
As  in  my  first  young  dream, 

I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 
The  hill-sides  bleak  and  bare, 

That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 
My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 

O  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burned  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  ? 

Was  that  flushed  cheek  as  now  ? 
Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive, 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ? 

Alas !  the  morning  dew  is  gone, 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away ; 
Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 

Can  warm  the  fading  shrine, 
Too  soon  to  chill  beyond  the  power 

Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine ! 


A   SOUVENIE. 

ES,  lady  !  I  can  ne'er  forget, 
That  once  in  other  years  we  met ; 
Thy  memory  may  perchance  recall 
A  festal  eve,  a  rose-wreathed  hall, 
Its  tapers'  blaze,  its  mirrors'  glance, 
Its  melting  song,  its  ringing  dance ;  — 


A  SOUVENIR.  41 

Why,  in  thy  dream  of  virgin  joy, 
Shouldst  thou  recall  a  pallid  boy  ? 

Thine  eye  had  other  forms  to  seek, 

Why  rest  upon  his  bashful  cheek  ? 

With  other  tones  thy  heart  was  stirred, 

Why  waste  on  him  a  gentle  word  ? 

We  parted,  lady,  — all  night  long 

Thine  ear  to  thrill  with  dance  and  song,  — 

And  I  —  to  weep  that  I  was  born 

A  thing  thou  scarce  wouldst  deign  to  scorn. 

And,  lady !  now  that  years  have  past, 
My  bark  has  reached  the  shore  at  last ; 
The  gales  that  filled  her  ocean  wing 
Have  chilled  and  shrunk  thy  hasty  spring, 
And  eye  to  eye,  and  brow  to  brow, 
I  stand  before  thy  presence  now ;  — 
Thy  lip  is  smoothed,  thy  voice  is  sweet, 
Thy  warm  hand  offered  when  we  meet. 

Nay,  lady !  't  is  not  now  for  me 
To  droop  the  lid  or  bend  the  knee. 
I  seek  thee,  —  oh,  thou  dost  not  shun ; 
I  speak,  —  thou  listenest  like  a  nun ; 
I  ask  thy  smile,  —  thy  lip  uncurls, 
Too  liberal  of  its  flashing  pearls  ; 
Thy  tears,  —thy  lashes  sink  again,  — 
My  Hebe  turns  to  Magdalen ! 

O  changing  youth !  that  evening  hour 
Look  down  on  ours,  —  the  bud  —  the  flower ; 
Thine  faded  in  its  virgin  soil, 
And  mine  was  nursed  in  tears  and  toil ; 


42  "QUI  VIVE!" 

Thy  leaves  were  withering,  one  by  one, 
While  mine  were  opening  to  the  sun ;  — 
Which  now  can  meet  the  cold  and  storm 
With  freshest  leaf  and  hardiest  form  7 

Ay,  lady !  that  once  haughty  glance 
Still  wanders  through  the  glittering  dance, 
And  asks  in  vain  from  others'  pride 
The  charity  thine  own  denied ; 
And  as  thy  fickle  lips  could  learn 
To  smile  and  praise,  —  that  used  to  spurn, 
So  the  last  offering  on  thy  shrine 
Shall  be  this  flattering  lay  of  mine  ! 


"QUI   VIVE!" 

UI  VIVE ! "    The  sentry's  musket  rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams ; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tri-colored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams ; 
Pass  on !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  zone 
That  girds  yon  sceptred  trembler's  throne ;  — 
Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest ! 

"  Qui  vive  !  "     How  oft  the  midnight  air 
That  startling  cry  has  borne ! 


THE  WASP  AND    THE  HORNET.       43 

How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 
O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  sand, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn ! 
Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red, 
Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead, 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 

With  battle's  crimson  showers  ! 

"  Qui  vive  !  "     And  is  the  sentry's  cry,  — 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand,  — 
Are  these  —  the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky  — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No  !     If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep,  — * 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves  ! 


THE   WASP   AND   THE   HOBNET. 

HE  two  proud  sisters  of  the  sea, 
In  glory  and  in  doom  !  — 
Well  may  the  eternal  waters  be 

Their  broad,  unsculptured  tomb  1 
The  wind  that  rings  along  the  wave, 
The  clear,  unshadowed  sun, 


44       FR  OM  A  BA  CHEL  OR  S  JO  URNAL. 

Are  torch  and  trumpet  o'er  the  brave, 
Whose  last  green  wreath  is  won ! 

No  stranger-hand  their  banners  furled, 

No  victor's  shout  they  heard ; 
Unseen,  above  them  ocean  curled, 

Save  by  his  own  pale  bird ; 
The  gnashing  billows  heaved  and  fell; 

Wild  shrieked  the  midnight  gale ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  morning  swell 

Were  pennon,  spar,  and  sail. 

The  land  of  Freedom  !     Sea  and  shore 

Are  guarded  now,  as  when 
Her  ebbing  waves  to  victory  bore 

Fair  barks  and  gallant  men ; 
O  many  a  ship  of  prouder  name 

May  wave  her  starry  fold, 
Nor  trail,  with  deeper  light  of  fame, 

The  paths  they  swept  of  old ! 


FROM  A  BACHELOR'S   PRIVATE   JOURNAL. 

WEET  Mary,  I  have  never  breathed 

The  love  it  were  in  vain  to  name ; 
Though   round   my   heart   a   serpent 

wreathed, 
I  smiled,  or  strove  to  smile,  the  same. 

Once  more  the  pulse  of  Nature  glows 
Witli  faster  throb  and  fresher  fire, 

While  music  round  her  pathway  flows, 
Like  echoes  from  a  hidden  lyre. 


STANZAS.  45 

And  is  there  none  with  me  to  share 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 

The  eagle  through  the  pathless  air 
Is  followed  by  one  burning  eye. 

Ah  no  !  the  cradled  flowers  may  wake, 

Again  may  flow  the  frozen  sea, 
From  every  cloud  a  star  may  break,  — 

There  comes  no  second  Spring  to  me. 

Go,  —  ere  the  painted  toys  of  youth 

Are  crushed  beneath  the  tread  of  years ; 
Ere  visions  have  been  chilled  to  truth, 

And  hopes  are  washed  away  in  tears- 
Go,  —  for  I  will  not  bid  thee  weep,  -— 

Too  soon  my  sorrows  will  be  thine, 
And  evening's  troubled  air  shall  sweep 

The  incense  from  the  broken  shrine. 

If  Heaven  can  hear  the  dying  tone 

Of  chords  that  soon  will  cease  to  thrill, 

The  prayer  that  Heaven  has  heard  alone 

May  bless  thee  when  those  chords  are  still. 


STANZAS. 

TRANGE!  that  one  lightly-whispered 

tone 

Is  far,  far  sweeter  unto  me, 
Than  all  the  sounds  that  kiss  the  earth, 
Or  breathe  along  the  sea ; 


46     THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

But,  lady,  when  thy  voice  I  greet, 
Not  heavenly  music  seems  so  sweet. 

I  look  upon  the  fair  blue  skies, 

And  naught  but  empty  air  I  see ; 

But  when  I  turn  me  to  thine  eyes, 
It  seemeth  unto  me 

Ten   thousand  angels  spread  their  wings 

Within  those  little  azure  rings. 

The  lily  hath  the  softest  leaf 

That  ever  western  breeze  hath  fanned, 
But  thou  shalt  have  the  tender  flower, 

So  I  may  take  thy  hand ; 
That  little  hand  to  me  doth  yield 
More  joy  than  all  the  broidered  field. 

0  lady  !  there  be  many  things 

That  seem  right  fair,  below,  above ; 

But  sure  not  one  among  them  all 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  love ;  — 

Let  us  not  pay  our  vows  alone, 

But  join  two  altars  both  in  one. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER   TO   HIS   LOVE. 


EAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air ; 


A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE.     47 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 
In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet ; 
The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 
Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 
The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid, 
Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round ! 
Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain ; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charm* 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close ; 
But  ah !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

Oh !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee ! 


48     THE  STAR  AND   THE  WATER-LILY. 


L'INCONNUE. 

S  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

Such  should,  mcthinks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear 

Were  best  befitting  thee ; 
And  she,  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 

I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair ; 
Ah !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 

Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 
And  she  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing 
Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 

To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown ; 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Eorget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 


THE   STAR  AND   THE   WATER-LILY 


HE  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden 

throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 
For  a  sleepy  thing  was  she ; 


THE  STAR  AND  THE  WATER-LILY.    49 

What  is  the  Lily  dreaming-  of  ? 

"Why  crisp  the  waters  blue  ? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnished  lid ! 

Her  white  leaves  are  glistening  through ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide ;  — 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true  ;  — 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  looked  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  ? 
"  O  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she ; 
"  But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in  the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea  ? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  ? 
O  no,  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne ; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves  shall  flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top, 
Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
4 


5o       ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE. 

Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 
Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 

That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle  smile, 
And  warmed  with  his  faithless  beam,  — 

And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower, 
That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 

Alas  for  the  Lily !  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkened  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide  : 
She  looked  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


ILLUSTRATION   OF   A   PICTURE. 

"A    SPANISH    GIRL    IN    REVERIE." 

HE  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads, 
That  round  her  neck  was  hung,  — 
My  grandsire's  gift ;  the  good  old  man 

Loved  girls  when  he  was  young ; 
And,  bending  lightly  o'er  the  cord, 

And  turning  half  away, 
With  something  like  a  youthful  sigh, 
Thus  spoke  the  maiden  gray  :  — 

"  Well,  one  may  trail  her  silken  robe, 
And  bind  her  locks  with  pearls, 

And  one  may  wreathe  the  woodland  rose 
Among  her  floating  curls ; 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE. 

And  one  may  tread  the  dewy  grass, 

And  one  the  marble  floor, 
Nor  half-hid  bosom  heave  the  less, 

Nor  broidered  corset  more ! 

"  Some  years  ago,  a  dark-eyed  girl 

Was  sitting  in  the  shade,  — 
There 's  something  brings  her  to  my  mind 

In  that  young  dreaming  maid,  — 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

A  flower,  whose  speaking  hue 
Said,  in  the  language  of  the  heart, 

'  Believe  the  giver  true/ 

"  And,  as  she  looked  upon  its  leaves, 

The  maiden  made  a  vow 
To  wear  it  when  the  bridal  wreath 

Was  woven  for  her  brow ; 
She  watched  the  flower,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  leaflets  curled  and  died ; 
But  he  who  gave  it  never  came 

To  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

"  O  many  a  summer's  morning  glow 

Has  lent  the  rose  its  ray, 
And  many  a  winter's  drifting  snow 

Has  swept  its  bloom  away ; 
But  she  has  kept  that  faithless  pledge 

To  this,  her  winter  hour, 
And  keeps  it  still,  herself  alone, 

And  wasted  like  the  flower." 

Her  pale  lip  quivered,  and  the  light 

Gleamed  in  her  moistening  eyes ;  — 


52  THE  DYING   SENECA. 

I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  tints 

In  those  Castilian  skies  ? 
"  She  thought  them  misty,  —  Jt  was  perhaps 

Because  she  stood  too  near  "  ; 
She  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned 

I  saw  her  wipe  a  tear. 


THE   DYING   SENECA. 

E  died  not  as  the  martyr  dies, 

Wrapped  in  his  living  shroud  of  flame ; 
He  fell  not  as  the  warrior  falls, 

Gasping  upon  the  field  of  fame ; 
A  gentler  passage  to  the  grave, 
The  murderer's  softened  fury  gave. 

Rome's  slaughtered  sons  and  blazing  piles 
Had  tracked  the  purple  demon's  path, 

And  yet  another  victim  lived 

To  fill  the  fiery  scroll  of  wrath ; 

Could  not  imperial  vengeance  spare 

His  furrowed  brow  and  silver  hair  ? 

The  field  was  sown  with  noble  blood, 

The  harvest  reaped  in  burning  tears, 

When,  rolling  up  its  crimson  flood, 

Broke  the  long-gathering  tide  of  years ; 

His  diadem  was  rent  away, 

And  beggars  trampled  on  his  clay. 

None  wept,  —  none  pitied ;  —  they  who  knelt 
At  morning  by  the  despot's  throne, 


A  PORTRAIT.  53 

At  evening  dashed  the  laurelled  bust, 

And    spurned    the    wreaths    themselves   had 

strewn ; 

The  shout  of  triumph  echoed  wide, 
The  self-stung  reptile  writhed  and  died ! 


A  PORTRAIT. 

STILL,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face, 

And  slightly  nonchalant, 
Which  seems  to  claim  a  middle  place 

Between  one's  love  and  aunt, 
Where  childhood's  star  has  left  a  ray 

In  woman's  sunniest  sky, 

As  morning  dew  and  blushing  day 

On  fruit  and  blossom  lie. 

And  yet,  —  and  yet  I  cannot  love 

Those  lovely  lines  on  steel ; 
They  beam  too  much  of  heaven  above, 

Earth's  darker  shades  to  feel ; 
Perchance  some  early  weeds  of  care 

Around  my  heart  have  grown, 
And  brows  unfurrowed  seem  not  fair, 

Because  they  mock  my  own. 

Alas  !  when  Eden's  gates  were  sealed, 
How  oft  some  sheltered  flower 

Breathed  o'er  the  wanderers  of  the  field, 
Like  their  own  bridal  bower ; 


54  A  ROMAN  AQUEDUCT. 

Yet,  saddened  by  its  loveliness, 

And  humbled  by  its  pride, 
Earth's  fairest  child  they  could  not  bless,  — 

It  mocked  them  when  they  sighed. 


A   ROMAN   AQUEDUCT. 

HE  sun-browned  girl,  whose  limbs  recline 
When  noon  her  languid  hand  has  laid 
Hot  on  the  green  flakes  of  the  pine, 
Beneath  its  narrow  disk  of  shade ; 

As,  through  the  flickering  noontide  glare, 
She  gazes  on  the  rainbow  chain 

Of  arches,  lifting  once  in  air 

The  rivers  of  the  Roman's  plain ;  — 

Say,  does  her  wandering  eye  recall 

The  mountain-current's  icy  wave,  — 

Or  for  the  dead  one  tear  let  fall, 

Whose  founts  are  broken  by  their  grave  ? 

From  stone  to  stone  the  ivy  weaves 

Her  braided  tracery's  winding  veil, 

And  lacing  stalks  and  tangled  leaves 
Nod  heavy  in  the  drowsy  gale. 

And  lightly  floats  the  pendent  vine, 

That  swings  beneath  her  slender  bow, 

Arch  answering  arch,  —  whose  rounded  line 
Seems  mirrored  in  the  wreath  below. 


LAST  PROPHECY  OF  CASSANDRA.     55 

How  patient  Nature  smiles  at  Fame  ! 

The  weeds,  that  strewed  the  victor's  way, 
Feed  on  his  dust  to  shroud  his  name, 

Green  where  his  proudest  towers  decay. 

See,  through  that  channel,  empty  now, 
The  scanty  rain  its  tribute  pours,  — 

Which  cooled  the  lip  and  laved  the  brow 
Of  conquerors  from  a  hundred  shores. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  nation's  bier, 

Whose  wants  the  captive  earth  supplied, 

The  dew  of  Memory's  passing  tear 
Falls  on  the  arches  of  her  pride ! 


THE  LAST  PROPHECY  OF  CASSANDRA. 

HE  sun  is  fading  in  the  skies 

And  evening  shades  are  gathering  fast ; 
iTair  city,  ere  that  sun  shall  rise, 

Thy  night  hath  come, — thy  day  is  past ! 

Ye  know  not,  —  but  the  hour  is  nigh  ; 

Ye  will  not  heed  the  warning  breath  ; 
No  vision  strikes  your  clouded  eye, 

To  break  the  sleep  that  wakes  in  death. 

Go,  age,  and  let  thy  withered  cheek 

Be  wet  once  more  with  freezing  tears  ; 

And  bid  thy  trembling  sorrow  speak, 
In  accents  of  departed  years. 


56    LAST  PROPHECY  OF  CASSANDRA. 

Go,  child,  and  pour  thy  sinless  prayer 
Before  the  everlasting  throne  ; 

And  He  who  sits  in  glory  there 

May  stoop  to  hear  thy  silver  tone. 

'  Go,  warrior,  in  thy  glittering  steel, 

And  bow  thee  at  the  altar's  side ; 
And  bid  thy  frowning  gods  reveal 

The  doom  their  mystic  counsels  hide. 

Go,  maiden,  in  thy  flowing  veil, 

And  bare  thy  brow,  and  bend  thy  knee ; 
When  the  last  hopes  of  mercy  fail, 

Thy  God  may  yet  remember  thee. 

Go,  as  thou  didst  in  happier  hours, 

And  lay  thine  incense  on  the  shrine ; 

And  greener  leaves,  and  fairer  flowers, 
Around  the  sacred  image  twine. 

I  saw  them  rise,  —  the  buried  dead,  — 

From  marble  tomb  and  grassy  mound ; 

I  heard  the  spirits'  printless  tread, 

And  voices  not  of  earthly  sound. 

I  looked  upon  the  quivering  stream, 

And  its  cold  wave  was  bright  with  flame ; 

And  wild,  as  from  a  fearful  dream, 
The  wasted  forms  of  battle  came. 

Ye  will  not  hear,  —  ye  will  not  know,  — 
Ye  scorn  the  maniac's  idle  song ; 

Ye  care  not !  but  the  voice  of  woe 

Shall  thunder  loud,  and  echo  long. 


TO  A   CAGED  LION.  57 

Blood  shall  be  in  your  marble  halls, 

And  spears  shall  glance,  and  fires  shall  glow; 
Ruin  shall  sit  upon  your  walls, 

But  ye  shall  lie  in  death  beloWo 

Ay,  none  shall  live  to  hear  the  storm 

Around  their  blackened  pillars  sweep ; 

To  shudder  at  the  reptile's  form, 

Or  scare  the  wild  bird  from  her  sleep. 


TO   A   CAGED   LION. 

OOR  conquered  monarch!  though  that 

haughty  glance 
Still  speaks  thy  courage  unsubdued 

by  time, 
And  in  the  grandeur  of  thy  sullen  tread 

Lives  the  proud  spirit  of  thy  burning  clime  ;  — 
Fettered  by  things  that  shudder  at  thy  roar, 
Torn  from  thy  pathless  wilds  to  pace  this  narrow 
floor! 

Thou  wast  the  victor,  and  all  nature  shrunk 
Before  the  thunders  of  thine  awful  wrath ; 

The  steel-armed  hunter  viewed  thee  from  afar, 
Fearless  and  trackless  in  thy  lonely  path ! 

The  famished  tiger  closed  his  flaming  eye, 

And  crouched  and  panted  as  thy  step  went  by ! 

Thou  art  the  vanquished,  and  insulting  man 

Bars  thy  broad  bosom  as  a  sparrow's  wing ; 


58  TO  MY  COMPANIONS. 

His  nerveless  arms  thine  iron  sinews  bind, 

And  lead  in  chains  the  desert's  fallen  king ; 
Are  these  the  beings  that  have  dared  to  twine 
Their  feeble  threads  around  those  limbs  of  thine  ? 

So  must  it  be ;  the  weaker,  wiser  race, 

That  wields  the  tempest  and  that  rides  the  sea, 

Even  in  the  stillness  of  thy  solitude 

Must  teach  the  lesson  of  its  power  to  thee ; 

And  thou,  the  terror  of  the  trembling  wild, 

Must  bow  thy  savage  strength,  the  mockery  of  a 
child! 


TO   MY   COMPANIONS. 

]INE  ancient  Chair !  thy  wide-embracing 

arms 
Have  clasped  around  me  even  from 

a  boy; 

Hadst  thou  a  voice  to  speak  of  years  gone  by, 
Thine  were  a  tale  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, 
Of  fevered  hopes  and  ill-foreboding  fears, 
And  smiles  unseen,  and  unrecorded  tears. 

And  thou,  my  Table !  though  unwearied  Time 
Hath  set  his  signet  on  thine  altered  brow, 

Still  can  I  see  thee  in  thy  spotless  prime, 

And  in  my  memory  thou  art  living  now ; 

Soon  must  thou  slumber  with  forgotten  things, 

The  peasant's  ashes  and  the  dust  of  kings. 


TO  MY  COMPANIONS.  59 

Thou  melancholy  Mug !  thy  sober  brown 

Hath  something  pensive  in  its  evening  hue, 

Not  like  the  things  that  please  the  tasteless  clown, 
With  gaudy  streaks  of  orange  and  of  blue ; 

And  I  must  love  thee,  for  thou  art  mine  own, 

Pressed  by  my  lip,  and  pressed  by  mine  alone. 

My  broken  Mirror  !  faithless,  yet  beloved, 

Thou  who  canst  smile,  and  smile  alike  on  all, 

Oft  do  I  leave  thee,  oft  again  return, 

I  scorn  the  siren,  but  obey  the  call ; 

I  hate  thy  falsehood,  while  I  fear  thy  truth, 

But  most  I  love  thee,  nattering  friend  of  youth. 

Primeval  Carpet !  every  well-worn  thread 
Has  slowly  parted  with  its  virgin  dye ; 

I  saw  thee  fade  beneath  the  ceaseless  tread, 
Fainter  and  fainter  in  mine  anxious  eye ; 

So  flies  the  color  from  the  brightest  flower, 

And  heaven's  own  rainbow  lives  but  for  an  hour. 

I  love  you  all !  there  radiates  from  our  own 
A  soul  that  lives  in  every  shape  we  see ; 

There  is  a  voice,  to  other  ears  unknown, 

Like  echoed  music  answering  to  its  key. 

The  dungeoned  captive  hath  a  tale  to  tell 

Of  every  insect  in  his  lonely  cell ; 

And  these  poor  frailties  have  a  simple  tone, 

That  breathes  in  accents  sweet  to  me  alone. 


60  THE  LAST  LEAF. 

THE   LAST   LEAP. 

SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 
Long  ago,  — 


TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER.   61 

That  he  had  a  Koman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring,  — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 


AN-VISAGED  thing  !  thy  virgin  leaf 
To  me  looks  more  than  deadly  pale, 
Unknowing  what  may  stain  thee  yet,  — 
A  poem  or  a  tale. 


62       TO  A  BLANK  SHEET   OF  PAPER. 

Who  can  thy  unborn  meaning  scan  ? 

Can  Seer  or  Sibyl  read  thee  now  ? 
No,  —  seek  to  trace  the  fate  of  man 

Writ  on  his  infant  brow. 

Love  may  light  on  thy  snowy  cheek, 

And  shake  his  Eden-breathing  plumes ; 

Then  shalt  thou  tell  how  Lelia  smiles, 
Or  Angelina  blooms. 

Satire  may  lift  his  bearded  lance, 

Forestalling  Time's  slow-moving  scythe, 

And,  scattered  on  thy  little  field, 
Disjointed  bards  may  writhe. 

Perchance  a  vision  of  the  night, 

Some  grizzled  spectre,  gaunt  and  thin, 

Or  sheeted  corpse,  may  stalk  along, 
Or  skeleton  may  grin  ! 

If  it  should  be  in  pensive  hour 

Some  sorrow-moving  theme  I  try, 

Ah,  maiden,  how  thy  tears  will  fall, 
For  all  I  doom  to  die  ! 

But  if  in  merry  mood  I  touch 

Thy  leaves,  then  shall  the  sight  of  thee 
Sow  smiles  as  thick  on  rosy  lips 

As  ripples  on  the  sea. 

The  Weekly  press  shall  gladly  stoop 

To  bind  thee  up  among  its  sheaves  ; 

The  Daily  steal  thy  shining  ore, 
To  gild  its  leaden  leaves. 


TO  AN  INSECT.  63 

Thou  hast  no  tongue,  yet  thou  canst  speak, 
Till  distant  shores  shall  hear  the  sound; 

Thou  hast  no  life,  yet  thou  canst  breathe 
Fresh  life  on  all  around. 

Thou  art  the  arena  of  the  wise, 

The  noiseless  battle-ground  of  fame  ; 

The  sky  where  halos  may  be  wreathed     . 
Around  the  humblest  name. 

Take,  then,  this  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
To  win  some  idle  reader's  smile, 

Then  fade  and  moulder  in  the  dust, 

Or  swell  some  bonfire's  crackling  pile. 


TO  AN  INSECT. 

LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 
In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill. 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 


64  TO  AN  INSECT. 

0  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE  DILEMMA.  65 

THE    DILEMMA. 

OW,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark  ; 

By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 

By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 

The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue,  — 

I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung  ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye, 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 

With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed  ; 

She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair,  — 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 

But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 

And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 

Came  marching  in,  —  their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 
The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 
And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
5 


66  MY  A  UNT. 

On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 

I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze  ; 

She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green ; 

She  looked  at  me  ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah  !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake ; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam  ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


MY   AUNT. 

Y  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looki 

As  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 
For  life  is  but  a  span. 


MY  AUNT.  67 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ;  — 
O  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsirc  brought  her  back ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track ; ) 
"  Ah  !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 


68  THE   TOADSTOOL. 

Alas !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


THE   TOADSTOOL. 

HERE  'S   a  thing   that  grows   by  the 

fainting  flower, 
And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady'i 

bower ; 

The  lily  shrinks,  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 
When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride, 
And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside ; 
But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip  stare, 
For  what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care  ? 

She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest, 
And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's  breast ; 
But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 
In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 
And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 
Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes, 
The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 
The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 

O  there  is  light  in  her  lover's  glance, 
That  flies  to  her  heart  like  a  silver  lance ; 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS.      69 

His  breeches  are  made  of  spotted  skin, 
His  jacket  is  tight,  and  his  pumps  are  thin ; 
In  a  cloudless  night  you  may  hear  his  song, 
As  its  pensive  melody  floats  along, 
And,  if  you  will  look  by  the  moonlight  fair, 
The  trembling  form  of  the  toad  is  there. 

And  he  twines  his  arms  round  her  slender  stem, 
In  the  shade  of  her  velvet  diadem  ; 
But  she  turns  away  in  her  maiden  shame, 
And  will  not  breathe  on  the  kindling  flame ; 
He  sings  at  her  feet  through  the  livelong  night, 
And  creeps  to  his  cave  at  the  break  of  light ; 
And  whenever  he  comes  to  the  air  above, 
His  throat  is  swelling  with  baffled  love. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   DRYADS* 


T  was  not  many  centuries  since, 

When,  gathered  on  the  moonlit  green, 
Beneath  the  Tree  of  Liberty, 

A  ring  of  weeping  sprites  was  seen. 

The  freshman's  lamp  had  long  been  dim, 
The  voice  of  busy  day  was  mute, 

And  tortured  Melody  had  ceased 

Her  sufferings  on  the  evening  flute. 

*  Written  after  a  general  pruning  of  the  trees  around 
Harvard  College. 


7o       THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS. 

They  met  not  as  they  once  had  met, 
To  laugh  o'er  many  a  jocund  tale : 

But  every  pulse  was  beating  low, 

And  every  cheek  was  cold  and  pale. 

There  rose  a  fair  but  faded  one, 

Who  oft  had  cheered  them  with  her  song ; 
She  waved  a  mutilated  arm, 

And  silence  held  the  listening  throng. 

"  Sweet  friends,"  the  gentle  nymph  began, 
"  From  opening  bud  to  withering  leaf, 

One  common  lot  has  bound  us  all, 
In  every  change  of  joy  and  grief. 

"  While  all  around  has  felt  decay, 

We  rose  in  ever-living  prime, 
With  broader  shade  and  fresher  green, 

Beneath  the  crumbling  step  of  Time. 

"  When  often  by  our  feet  has  past 

Some  biped,  Nature's  walking  whim, 

Say,  have  we  trimmed  one  awkward  shape, 
Or  lopped  away  one  crooked  limb  ? 

"  Go  on,  fair  Science  ;  soon  to  thee 
Shall  Nature  yield  her  idle  boast ; 

Her  vulgar  fingers  formed  a  tree, 

But  thou  hast  trained  it  to  a  post. 

"  Go  paint  the  birch's  silver  rind, 

And  quilt  the  peach  with  softer  down ; 

Up  with  the  willow's  trailing  threads, 

Off  with  the  sunflower's  radiant  crown  ! 


THE  MEETING   OF  THE  DRYADS.      71 

"  Go,  plant  the  lily  on  the  shore, 

And  set  the  rose  among  the  waves, 

And  bid  the  tropic  bud  unbind 

Its  silken  zone  in  arctic  caves  ; 

"  Bring  bellows  for  the  panting  winds, 
Hang  up  a  lantern  by  the  moon, 

And  give  the  nightingale  a  fife, 
And  lend  the  eagle  a  balloon ! 

"  I  cannot  smile,  —  the  tide  of  scorn, 

That  rolled  through  every  bleeding  vein, 

Comes  kindling  fiercer  as  it  flows 

Back  to  its  burning  source  again. 

"  Again  in  every  quivering  leaf 

That  moment's  agony  I  feel, 
When  limbs,  that  spurned  the  northern  blast, 

Shrunk  from  the  sacrilegious  steel. 

"  A  curse  upon  the  wretch  who  dared 

To  crop  us  with  his  felon  saw ! 
May  every  fruit  his  lip  shall  taste 

Lie  Hke  a  bullet  in  his  maw. 

"  In  every  julep  that  he  drinks, 

May  gout,  and  bile,  and  headache  be  ; 

And  when  he  strives  to  calm  his  pain, 
May  colic  mingle  with  his  tea. 

"  May  nightshade  cluster  round  his  path, 
And  thistles  shoot,  and  brambles  cling ; 

May  blistering  ivy  scorch  his  veins, 

And  dogwood  burn,  and  nettles  sting. 


7a  THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR. 

"  On  him  may  never  shadow  fall, 

When  fever  racks  his  throbbing  brow, 

And  his  last  shilling  buy  a  rope 

To  hang  him  on  my  highest  bough  !  " 

She  spoke ;  —  the  morning's  herald  beam 
Sprang  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  every  mangled  sprite  returned 
In  sadness  to  her  wounded  tree.* 


THE  MYSTERIOUS   VISITOR. 

HERE  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
A  tramp  on  echoing  stairs, 

There  was  a  rush  along  the  aisles,  — 
It  was  the  hour  of  prayers. 

And  on,  like  Ocean's  midnight  wave, 

The  current  rolled  along, 
When,  suddenly,  a  stranger  form 

Was  seen  amidst  the  throng. 

He  was  a  dark  and  swarthy  man, 

That  uninvited  guest ; 
A  faded  coat  of  bottle-green 

Was  buttoned  round  his  breast. 

*  A  little  poem,  on  a  similar  occasion,  may  be  found  in 
the  works  of  Swift,  from  which,  perhaps,  the  idea  was  bor 
rowed  j  although  1  was  as  much  surprised  as  amused  to 
meet  with  it  some  time  after  writing  the  preceding  lines. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR.          73 

There  was  not  one  among  them  all 
Could  say  from  whence  he  came ; 

Nor  beardless  boy,  nor  ancient  man, 
Could  tell  that  stranger's  name. 

All  silent  as  the  sheeted  dead, 

In  spite  of  sneer  and  frown, 
Fast  by  a  gray-haired  senior's  side 

He  sat  him  boldly  down. 

There  was  a  look  of  horror  flashed 

From  out  the  tutor's  eyes  ; 
When  all  around  him  rose  to  pray, 

The  stranger  did  not  rise  ! 

A  murmur  broke  along  the  crowd, 

The  prayer  was  at  an  end ; 
With  ringing  heels  and  measured  tread, 

A  hundred  forms  descend. 

Through  sounding  aisle,  o'er  grating  stair, 

The  long  procession  poured, 
Till  all  were  gathered  on  the  seats 

Around  the  Commons  board. 

That  fearful  stranger !  down  he  sat, 

Unasked,  yet  undismayed ; 
And  on  his  lip  a  rising  smile 

Of  scorn  or  pleasure  played. 

He  took  his  hat  and  hung  it  up, 

With  slow  but  earnest  air  ; 
He  stripped  his  coat  from  off  his  back, 

Aid  placed  it  on  a  chair. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR. 

Then  from  his  nearest  neighbor's  side 

A  knife  and  plate  he  drew ; 
And,  reaching  out  his  hand  again, 

He  took  his  teacup  too. 

How  fled  the  sugar  from  the  bowl ! 

How  sunk  the  azure  cream  ! 
They  vanished  like  the  shapes  that  float 

Upon  a  summer's  dream. 

A  long,  long  draught,  —  an  outstretched  hand, 

And  crackers,  toast,  and  tea, 
They  faded  from  the  stranger's  touch, 

Like  dew  upon  the  sea. 

Then  clouds  were  dark  on  many  a  brow, 

Fear  sat  upon  their  souls, 
And,  in  a  bitter  agony, 

They  clasped  their  buttered  rolls. 

A  whisper  trembled  through  the  crowd,  — • 

Who  could  the  stranger  be  ? 
And  some  were  silent,  for  they  thought 

A  cannibal  was  he. 

What  if  the  creature  should  arise,  — 

For  he  was  stout  and  tall,  — 
And  swallow  down  a  sophomore, 

Coat,  crow's-foot,  cap,  and  all ! 

All  sullenly  the  stranger  rose ; 

They  sat  in  mute  despair  ; 
He  took  his  hat  from  off  the  peg, 

His  coat  from  off  the  chair. 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG.  75 

Four  freshmen  fainted  on  the  seat, 
Six  swooned  upon  the  floor  ; 

Yet  on  the  fearful  being  passed, 
And  shut  the  chapel  door. 

There  is  full  many  a  starving  man, 

That  walks  in  bottle  green, 
But  never  more  that  hungry  one 

In  Commons-hall  was  seen. 

Yet  often  at  the  sunset  hour, 

When  tolls  the  evening  bell, 

The  freshman  lingers  on  the  steps, 
That  frightful  tale  to  tell. 


THE    SPECTRE  PIG. 

A   BALLAD. 


T  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 
That  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 
And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die, 
And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 


And  oh  !  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah  !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men, 
They  trailed  him  all  along ; 

They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips, 
And  through  his  heels  a  thong  ; 


76  TEE  SPECTRE  PIG. 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 
A  hempen  cord  they  flung, 

And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum, 
All  solemnly  he  swung  ! 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  thou  sinful  man, 
And  think  what  thou  hast  done, 

And  read  thy  catechism  well, 
Thou  bloody-minded  one ; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night, 

It  better  were  for  thee, 
That  thou  wert  mouldering  in  the  ground, 

Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 

It  was  the  savage  butcher  then, 
That  made  a  mock  of  sin, 

And  swore  a  very  wicked  oath, 
He  did  not  care  a  pin. 

It  was  the  butcher's  youngest  son,  — 
His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs, 

And  with  Ms  pocket-handkerchief 
He  wiped  his  little  eyes ; 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he, 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And,  in  his  soft  simplicity, 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child  :  — 

«  O  father,  father,  list  to  me  ; 

The  Pig  is  deadly  sick, 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels, 

And  fed  him  with  a  stick." 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG.  77 

It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 

That  laughed  as  he  would  die, 

Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 
And  bid  him  not  to  cry ;  — 

•'  O  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 

That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  wail  ? 

Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child, 
And  thou  shalt  have  his  tail !  " 

it  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

So  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair ; 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone,  — 
Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big ;  — 

"  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !     Alas  !  Alas  ! 

The  Pig!  The  Pig  !  The  Pig  !" 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 

Make  merry  with  her  woe, 
And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 

Because  she  whimpered  so. 

YQ  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 

In  vain  your  tears  are  shed, 
Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 

Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 

His  robes  of  rosy  flame, 
And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came. 


78  THE  SPECTRE  PIG. 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 

Were  busy  with  his  dreams ; 
Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 

Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 

The  clock  struck  twelve  ;  the  Dead  hath  heard ; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes, 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord,  — 
One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 

With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye, 
The  Pig  was  on  the  ground  ! 

And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  houso 

His  fearful  way  he  wended  ; 
And  hooting  owl,  and  hovering  bat, 

On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch, 

And  open  swung  the  door, 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor, 

And  two  upon  the  bed ; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side, 

The  living  and  the  dead ! 

"  Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  butcher  man ! 

What  makes  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Take  hold  !  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 

To  clasp  a  spectre's  tail  1 " 


LINES  BY  A   CLERK.  79 

Untwisted  every  winding  coil ; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  hold, 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed, 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 

"  Thou  com'st  with  me,  thou  butcher  man ! "  — 

He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp, 
But,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine, 

Those  twining  spirals  clasp. 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim ; 
They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full  long, 

They  did  not  waken  him. 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken  beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran  ; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 


LINES   BY   A   CLERK. 

H  !  I  did  love  her  dearly, 

And  gave  her  toys  and  rings, 
And  I  thought  she  meant  sincerely, 
When  she  took  my  pretty  things. 


So  LINES  BY  A   CLERK. 

But  her  heart  has  grown  as  icy 
As  a  fountain  in  the  fall, 

And  her  love,  that  was  so  spicy, 
It  did  not  last  at  all. 

I  gave  her  once  a  locket, 

It  was  filled  with  my  own  hair, 
And  she  put  it  in  her  pocket 

With  very  special  care. 
But  a  jeweller  has  got  it,  — 

He  offered  it  to  me, 
And  another  that  is  not  it 

Around  her  neck  I  see. 

For  my  cooings  and  my  billings 

I  do  not  now  complain, 
But  my  dollars  and  my  shillings 

Will  never  come  again ; 
They  were  earned  with  toil  and  sorrow, 

But  I  never  told  her  that, 
And  now  I  have  to  borrow, 

And  want  another  hat. 

Think,  think,  thou  cruel  Emma, 
When  thou  shalt  hear  my  woe, 

And  know  my  sad  dilemma, 
That  thou  hast  made  it  so. 

See,  see  my  beaver  rusty, 

Look,  look  upon  this  hole, 

This  coat  is  dim  and  dusty ; 

0  let  it  rend  thy  soul ! 

Before  the  gates  of  fashion 

1  daily  bent  my  knee, 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PEDESTRIAN.     81 

But  I  sought  the  shrine  of  passion, 
And  found  my  idol,  —  thee. 

Though  never  love  intenser 

Had  bowed  a  soul  before  it, 

Thine  eye  was  on  the  censer, 

And  not  the  hand  that  bore  it. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD  PEDESTRIAN. 

SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 

And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was 

cutting  a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still, 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 
And  constables  cluster  around  him, 

And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole  deep 
Where  their  spectre  eyes  have  found  him ! 
6 


THE  POETS  LOT. 

Ay !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your  thong, 
And  bid  your  steed  go  faster ; 

He  does  not  know,  as  he  scrambles  along, 
That  he  has  a"  fool  for  his  master ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 

Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 

With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave  me ! 


THE   POET'S   LOT. 

HAT  is  a  poet's  love  ?  — - 

To  write  a  girl  a  sonnet, 
To  get  a  ring,  or  some  such  thing^ 
And  fustianize  upon  it. 


What  is  a  poet's  fame  ?  — 

Sad  hints  about  his  reason, 

And  sadder  praise  from  garreteers, 
To  be  returned  in  season. 

Where  go  the  poet's  lines  ?  — 
Answer,  ye  evening  tapers  ! 

Ye  auburn  locks,  ye  golden  curls, 
Speak  from  your  folded  papers ! 

Child  of  the  ploughshare,  smile ; 

Boy  of  the  counter,  grieve  not, 
Though  muses  round  thy  trundle-bed 

Their  broidered  tissue  weave  not. 


DAILY  TRIALS.  83 

The  poet's  future  holds 

No  civic  wreath  above  him ; 
Nor  slated  roof,  nor  varnished  chaise, 

Nor  wife  nor  child  to  love  him. 

Maid  of  the  village  inn, 

Who  workest  woe  on  satin, 
(The  grass  in  black,  the  graves  in  green, 

The  epitaph  in  Latin,) 

Trust  not  to  them  who  say, 

In  stanzas,  they  adore  thee ; 
O  rather  sleep  in  churchyard  clay, 

With  urns  and  cherubs  o'er  the«  ! 


DAILY    TRIALS. 

BY    A    SENSITIVE    MAN. 

THERE  are  times 

When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we 

hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's 

ear 
His  own  dull  chimes. 


Ding  dong !  ding  dong ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  —  woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long ! 


84  DAILY  TRIALS. 

From  crib  to  shroud ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as  we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 

The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in  the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,  wakening  one  by  one, 

Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws  round  us,  then  the  lonely  caterwaul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall,  — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

"Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar,  — 
Men,  plugless  word-spouts,  whose  deep  fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 

Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal  ass, 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 

Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  machine, 
Which  grinding,  squeaks,with  husky  groans  between, 

Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 

Thin  horses  of  a  Sunday,  —  men,  with  clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their  dams 

From  hill  to  hill. 


EVENING.  85 

Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  despair, 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your  fill ; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


EVENING. 

BY   A   TAILOR. 

AY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre 

ribs, 

And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with ;  — but  yet  I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 


86  EVENING. 

Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  1 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 

1  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me,  —  oh,  most  fearfully ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  —  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me ;  —  I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 


THE  DORCHESTER   GIANT.  87 

Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 


THE   DORCHESTER   GIANT. 

HERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 

A  mighty  one  was  he ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold; 
And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then, 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three, 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen ; 
The  children  roared ;  quoth  the  giant,  "  Be  still ! " 
And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State-House  dome ; 
Quoth  he,  "  There 's  something  for  you  to  eat ; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 

And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 


88  THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT. 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away  ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout, 
Said  he,  "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get  out, 
Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  he  strode  the  fields  along ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 
When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story 's  true  or  not, 

It  is  not  for  me  to  show ; 
There 's  many  a  thing  that  'B  twice  as  queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

***** 

What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 
The  wife  and  the  children  sad  ? 

O,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 

Screaming,  and  throwing  their  pudding  about, 
Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw ; 

They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

***** 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 
For  ages  have  floated  by ; 


PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN."      89 

The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow-bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 
But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride, 
The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN." 

IN    THE   ATHEN^UM    GALLERY. 

T  may  be  so,  —  perhaps  thoti  hast 

A  warm  and  loving  heart ; 
I  will  not  blame  thee  for  thy  face, 
Poor  devil  as  thou  art. 

That  thing,  thou  fondly  deem'st  a  nose, 

Unsightly  though  it  be,  — 
In  spite  of  all  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

It  may  be  much  to  thee. 

Those  eyes,  —  among  thine  elder  friends 
Perhaps  they  pass  for  blue,  — 

No  matter,  —  if  a  man  can  see, 
What  more  have  eyes  to  do  ? 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  fissure  in  thy  face, 
By  something  like  a  chin,  — • 

May  be  a  very  useful  place 
To  put  thy  victual  in. 


90     PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN." 

I  know  thou  hast  a  wife  at  home, 

I  know  thou  hast  a  child, 
By  that  subdued,  domestic  smile 

Upon  thy  features  mild. 

That  wife  sits  fearless  by  thy  side, 

That  cherub  on  thy  knee ; 
They  do  not  shudder  at  thy  looks, 

They  do  not  shrink  from  thee. 

Above  thy  mantel  is  a  hook,  — 

A  portrait  once  was  there  ; 
It  was  thine  only  ornament,  — 

Alas !  that  hook  is  bare. 

She  begged  thee  not  to  let  it  go, 
She  begged  thee  all  in  vain  ; 

She  wept,  —  and  breathed  a  trembling  prayer 
To  meet  it  safe  again. 

It  was  a  bitter  sight  to  see 

That  picture  torn  away ; 
It  was  a  solemn  thought  to  think 

What  all  her  friends  would  say ! 

And  often  in  her  calmer  hours, 

And  in  her  happy  dreams, 
Upon  its  long-deserted  hook 

The  absent  portrait  seems. 

Thy  wretched  infant  turns  his  head 

In  melancholy  wise, 
And  looks  to  meet  the  placid  stare 

Of  those  unbending  eyes. 


TO   THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY." 

I  never  saw  tliee,  lovely  one,  — 
Perchance  I  never  may ; 

It  is  not  often  that  we  cross 
Such  people  in  our  way ; 

But  if  we  meet  in  distant  years, 
Or  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Sure  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath, 
I  Ve  seen  that  face  before. 


TO    THE   PORTRAIT   OF   "A  LADY." 

IN    THE    ATHENAEUM    GALLERY. 

ELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame ; 

Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 
You  had  your  portrait  done ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul  • 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win  ; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 


92  TUE  COMET. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
"Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  1 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face ! 

I  love  sweet  features ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends ! 


THE    COMET. 

HE  Comet !     He  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies ; 
Ah !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 
Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail ! 

On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light, 

He  flashes  and  he  flames ; 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names ; 


THE  COMET.  93 

One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam  ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy  ; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  raya 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns  !  whiz  flew  the  balli ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub  " ; 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 
The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 


94  THE  COMET. 

And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 
Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines ; 

I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 
Such  noise  about  the  town ; 

They  answered  not,  —  but  all  the  while 
The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coaL 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze ; 
I  saw  hugh  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights !  strange  sounds !  O  fearful  dream 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger  !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 
Spare,  spare,  O  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep ! 


A  NOONTIDE  LYRIC.  95 

A  NOONTIDE  LYRIC. 

HE  dinner-bell,  the  dinner-bell 

Is  ringing  loud  and  clear ; 
Through  hill  and  plain,  through  street 

and  lane, 
It  echoes  far  and  near ; 
From  curtained  hall  and  whitewashed  stall, 

Wherever  men  can  hide, 
Like  bursting  waves  from  ocean  caves, 
They  float  upon  the  tide. 

I  smell  the  smell  of  roasted  meat ! 

I  hear  the  hissing  fry  ! 
The  beggars  know  where  they  can  go, 

But  where,  O  where  shall  I  ? 
At  twelve  o'clock  men  took  my  hand, 

At  two  they  only  stare, 
And  eye  me  with  a  fearful  look, 

As  if  I  were  a  bear ! 

The  poet  lays  his  laurels  down, 

And  hastens  to  his  greens ; 
The  happy  tailor  quits  his  goose, 

To  riot  on  his  beans ; 
The  weary  cobbler  snaps  his  thread, 

The  printer  leaves  his  pi ; 
His  very  devil  hath  a  home, 

But  what,  O  what  have  I  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  an  angel  voice, 

That  softly  seems  to  say  : 
"  Pale  stranger,  all  may  yet  be  well, 

Then  wipe  thy  tears  away ; 


96       BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN. 

Erect  thy  head,  and  cock  thy  hat, 

And  follow  me  afar, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  jolly  meal, 

And  charge  it  at  the  bar." 

I  hear  the  voice  !  I  go  !  I  go  ! 

Prepare  your  meat  and  wine ! 
They  little  heed  their  future  need, 

Who  pay  not  when  they  dine. 
Give  me  to-day  the  rosy  bowl, 

Give  me  one  golden  dream,  — 
To-morrow  kick  away  the  stool, 

And  dangle  from  the  beam  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN. 

T  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by 

the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his 

boat  was  on  the  tide; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight 

and  slim, 

Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to 
him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely 

maid, 
Upon    a    moonlight    evening,   a   sitting    in    the 

shade ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much  as  if 

to  say, 
"  I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all  the 

folks  away." 


BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN.       97 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said 

he, 
"  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for  fear  that 

folks  should  see ; 

I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont,  —  and  I  will  swim 

this  here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the 

shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the 

moonlight  gleam; 
O  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as 

soft  as  rain,  — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and  in  he 

leaps  again! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "0  what  was 

that,  my  daughter  ?  " 
"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw  into  the 

water." 
"And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles 

off  so  fast  ?  " 
"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been  a 

swimming  past." 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "Now  bring 
me  my  harpoon ! 

I'll  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow 
soon." 

Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow- 
white  lamb, 

Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  sea 
weed  on  a  clam. 
7 


98  THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked  not 

from  her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the 

waves  was  drowned ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their 

woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids 

down  below. 


THE   MUSIC-GRINDEKS. 


HERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 

One's  money  from  his  purse, 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse  ; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 

And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS.  99 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 

Some  filthy  creature  begs 
You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There  's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home  "  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place ; 
Your  "  auld  acquaintance  "  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face  ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and  Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 


ioo  THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 
From  some  infernal  clime, 

To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Ehyme, 

To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark !  the  air  again  is  still, 
The  music  all  is  ground, 

And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 
To  heal  the  blows  of  sound  ; 

It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 
A  hat  is  going  round  ! 

No  !  Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 
A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 

And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear, 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 

And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 
Your  knuckles  in  his  claw  ; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 

And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 
And  shut  the  window  down ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 
Not  big  enough  for  that, 

Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 
Because  you  are  a  flat, 

Go  very  quietly  and  drop 
A  button  in  the  hat  ! 


THE  TREADMILL  SONG.  101 


THE   TREADMILL   SONG. 

HE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly  ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 
Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ! 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 
What  though  you  're  awkward  at  the  trade, 

There 's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They  Ve  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We  Ve  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here,  — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 


102  THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE. 

He 's  lost  them  both,  —  don't  pull  his  hair, 
Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 

But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye, 
That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark !  fellows,  there 's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It 's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun  ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own  ! 


THE   SEPTEMBEK   GALE. 

M  not  a  chicken  ;  I  have  seen 

Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 

That  gale  I  well  remember ; 
The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf  hat ;  — 
For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  ! 

It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing  ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds, 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees, 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 


THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE.  103 

Lord  !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled, 

And  how  the  shingles  rattled ! 
And  oaks  were  scattered  on  the  ground, 

As  if  the  Titans  battled ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 

And  all  our  things  were  drying : 
The  storm  came  roaring  through  the  lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches ; 
I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches ! 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas  !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  them  ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride, 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
«  Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,  — 

"  My  breeches  !     O  my  breeches !  " 

That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 

How  changed  from  what  I  knew  them ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads, 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them  ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 


104    THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches ! 


THE   HEIGHT   OF  THE   RIDICULOUS. 


WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 


They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die ; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him, 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  1 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 

I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 


THE  HOT  SEASON.  105 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 

And  saw  him  peep  within ; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 
He  read  the  third  ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth ;  he  broke  into  a  roar ; 

The  fifth ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 


THE   HOT    SEASON. 

HE  folks,  that  on  the  first  of  May 

Wore  winter-coats  and  hose, 
Began  to  say,  the  first  of  June, 

"  Good  Lord  !  how  hot  it  grows ! " 
At  last  two  Fahrenheits  blew  up, 

And  killed  two  children  small, 
And  one  barometer  shot  dead 
A  tutor  with  its  ball ! 


io6  THE  HOT  SEASON. 

Now  all  day  long  the  locusts  sang 

Among  the  leafless  trees ; 
Three  new  hotels  warped  inside  out, 

The  pumps  could  only  wheeze ; 
And  ripe  old  wine,  that  twenty  years 

Had  cobwebbed  o'er  in  vain, 
Came  spouting  through  the  rotten  corks, 

Like  Joly's  best  Champagne  ! 

The  Worcester  locomotives  did 

Their  trip  in  half  an  hour; 
The  Lowell  cars  ran  forty  miles 

Before  they  checked  the  power ; 
Roll  brimstone  soon  became  a  drug, 

And  loco-focos  fell ; 
All  asked  for  ice,  but  everywhere 

Saltpetre  was  to  sell. 

Plump  men  of  mornings  ordered  tights, 

But,  ere  the  scorching  noons, 
Their  candle-moulds  had  grown  as  loose 

As  Cossack  pantaloons ! 
The  dogs  ran  mad,  —  men  could  not  try 

If  water  they  would  choose ; 
A  horse  fell  dead,  —  he  only  left 

Four  red-hot,  rusty  shoes  ! 

But  soon  the  people  could  not  bear 

The  slightest  hint  of  fire ; 
Allusions  to  caloric  drew 

A  flood  of  savage  ire ; 
The  leaves  on  heat  were  all  torn  out 

From  every  book  at  school, 
And  many  blackguards  kicked  and  caned, 

Because  they  said,  "  Keep  cool ! " 


DEPARTED  DAYS.  107 

The  gas-light  companies  were  mobbed, 

The  bakers  all  were  shot, 
The  penny  press  began  to  talk 

Of  Lynching  Doctor  Nott ; 
And  all  about  the  warehouse  steps 

Were  angry  men  in  droves, 
Crashing  and  splintering  through  the  doors 

To  smash  the  patent  stoves  ! 

The  abolition  men  and  maids 

Were  tanned  to  such  a  hue, 
You  scarce  could  tell  them  from  their  friends, 

Unless  their  eyes  were  blue ; 
And,  when  I  left,  society 

Had  burst  its  ancient  guards, 
And  Brattle  Street  and  Temple  Place 

Were  interchanging  cards ! 


DEPARTED   DAYS. 

ES,  dear  departed,  cherished  days, 
Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more,  — 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 
While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam ;  — 


io8  THE  STEAMBOAT. 

Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea ; 
The  mist  grows  dark,  —  the  sun  goes  down,  — 

Day  breaks,  —  and  where  are  we  ? 


THE    STEAMBOAT. 

EE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 
The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 
Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  rounds  her  fast,  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells ; 
And,  burning  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by ; 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 


THE  STEAMBOAT.  109 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale  ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark !  hark  !  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing  ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire  ; 
Sleep  on,  —  and,  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
O  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  ! 


no  THE  PARTING   WORD. 


THE   PARTING  WORD. 

MUST  leave  thee,  lady  sweet ! 

Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet; 

Winds  are  fair,  and  sails  are  spread, 

Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed ; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark ; 
Through  thy  tears,  0  lady  mine, 
Read  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet ; 
When  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes ; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes,  and  spoils  thy  hair. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 
Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek ; 
In  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  shalt  once  attempt  to  laugh ; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  shalt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 

While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Round  thy  chamber  bolted  fast, 
Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 
"  Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out !  " 


THE  PARTING   WORD.  m 

While  the  second  week  goes  round, 
Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound  ; 
When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 
"  Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Now  once  more  the  flattering  throng 
Bound  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song, 
But  thy  lips,  unweaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "  0,  how  can  I  forget ! " 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  girls  alive ; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed,  — 
How,  0  how  can  you  resist1? 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man ; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall ; 
Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 

Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,  daggers,  ropes ; 
All  the  hemp  that  Eussia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers ; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  fine, 
Never  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true 
That  would  really  swing  for  you. 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair ; 


Hi  SONG. 

Others  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
You  must  melt,  or  they  will  die ; 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies ; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too ; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do  ? 

Fare  thee  well,  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 
Keep,  O  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet ; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now. 


SONG, 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    DINNER   GIVEN    TO    CHARLES 
DICKENS,  BY   THE    YOUNG    MEN    OF    BOSTON, 

FEB.    I,    1842. 

HE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 
The  silent  hours  are  near, 
When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep,  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here ; 
And  what  —  the  passing  churl  may  ask  — 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  Toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 
And  Love  his  promised  hour  ? 


SONG.  113 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone ; 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Alas  !  no  more  is  blown ; 
And  Passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 

Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 
While  yet  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

As  once  o'er  Avon's  side ;  — 
While  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom. 

And  dewy  blossoms  wave, 
Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 

And  Nelly's  nameless  grave- 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea ! 

Though  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood ; 
Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings, 

Our  western  skies  in  flame ! 


ii4  LINES  RECITED  AT 

LINES 

RECITED    AT    THE    BERKSHIRE    FESTIVAL. 


OME  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children, 

for  shame, 
Who    have   wandered   like   truants,   for 

riches  or  fame ! 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in  her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful  lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts,  and  your 

lanes, 

And  breathe,  like  young  eagles,  the  air  of  our  plains ; 
Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  excellent 

wives 
Will  declare  it 's  all  nonsense  insuring  your  lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if  you  please, 
Till  the  man  of  the  moon  will  allow  it 's  a  cheese, 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells  lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes. 

Ye  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 

Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac  line ; 

While  you  shut  up  your  turnpike,  your  neighbors 

can  go, 
The  old  roundabout  road,  to  the  regions  below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of  pens, 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and  tens ; 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome  you  still 
As  a  featherless  bipec^  in  spite  of  your  quill. 


THE  BERKSHIRE  FESTIVAL.         115 

Poor  drudge  of  the  city !  how  happy  he  feels, 
With  the  burs  on  his  le£s,  and  the  grass  at  hi< 

heels  ! 

No  dodger  behind,  his  bandannas  to  share, 
No   constable   grumbling,    "  You   must   n't   wallf 

there!" 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and 

shoots, 
He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by  the  old 

church ; 

That  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 
O  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks, 
Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many  "big 

licks." 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were  pumps, 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him  again ; 
The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  neckcloth  is  damp  with  an  easterly  flaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  omnibus  straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy  gale, 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  native  vale; 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and  of  time, 
"  A  1.     Extra-super.     Ah,  is  n't  it  PRIME  J " 


n6        VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER. 

O  what  are  the  prizes  we  perish  to  win 

To  the  first  little  "  shiner  "  we  caught  with  a  pin ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 

As  the  soil  we  first  stirred  in  terrestrial  pies ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties,  and  parts,  to  our  feast  ; 
Though  not  at  the  "  Astor,"  we  '11  give  you  at  least 
A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 
And  the  best  of  old — water  —  at  nothing  a  glass. 


VEESES  FOE  AFTER-DINNER. 

$    B    K    SOCIETY,     1844. 

WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the 

cars, 

With  the  charmingest  prospect  of  cin 
ders  and  stars, 
Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me  !  —  how  hard  it  will 

be, 
If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will  not  devour, 
From  a  tutor  in  seed  to  a  freshman  in  flower ; 
No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too  green, 
And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you  're  never 
too  lean. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and  the  roast, 
He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a  toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and  young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER.       117 

Poor  victim,  prepared  for  his  classical  spit, 
With  a  stuffing  of  praise,  and  a  basting  of  wit, 
You  may  twitch  at  your  collar,  and  wrinkle  your 

brow, 
But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're  in  for  it 

now. 

O  think  of  your  friends,  —  they  are  waiting  to  hear 
Those  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remarkably  queer ; 
And  all  the  Jack  Homers  of  metrical  buns 
Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the  puns. 

Those  thoughts  which,  like  chickens,  will  always 

thrive  best 

When  reared  by  the  heat  of  the  natural  nest, 
Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo  dream 
In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial  steam. 

0  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire, 
With  a  veiy  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire ; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle  your  Lucifer  match, 

If  the  fiz  does  not  follow  the  primitive  scratch. 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly  the  while, 
With  your  lips  double  reefed  in  a  snug  little  smile,  — 

1  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from  the  deep,  — • 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls  you  may 

keep. 
***** 

The  fish  called  the  FLOUNDER,  perhaps  you  may 

know, 

Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  for  show ; 
One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 
And  one  that  is  white,  which  he  always  keeps  down. 


u8       VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of  flats, 
(And  they're  none  of  them  thicker  than  opera  hats,) 
Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity  taught 
Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had  been  caught. 

"  My !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what  a  sight ! 
I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his  white ! 
Such  spinning  and  wriggling, — why,  what  does 

he  wish  ? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish  ! " 

Then  said  an  old  SCULPIN,  —  "  My  freedom  ex 
cuse, 

But  you  're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in  your 
shoes ; 

Your  brown  side  is  up,  —  but  just  wait  till  you  're 
tried 

And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are  white  on  one 

side." 

***** 

There  's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pectoral  fins, 
Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the  venter  begins ; 
Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks  and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations  ;  he  feels  they  '11  be  missed ; 
But  that  one  little  titbit  he  cannot  resist ; 
So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  matter  how  fast, 
Tor  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece  of  the  last. 

And  thus,  O  survivor,  whose  merciless  fate 
Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  president's  bait, 
You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the  end  of  his  lina 
The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of  mine ! 


SONG. 


SONG, 


119 


FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER  TO  WHICH  LADIES 
WERE  INVITED  (NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LI 
BRARY  ASSOCIATION,  NOV.  1842). 

HEALTH  to  dear  woman  !     She  bids 

us  untwine, 

From  the  cup  it  encircles,  the  fast-cling 
ing  vine ; 

But  her  cheek  in  its  crystal  with  pleasure  will  glow, 
And  mirror  its  bloom  in  the  bright  wave  below. 

A  health  to  sweet  woman  !  The  days  are  no  more 
When  she  watched  for  her  lord  till  the  revel  was  o'er, 
And  smoothed  the  white  pillow,  and  blushed  when 

he  came, 
As  she  pressed  her  cold  lips  on  his  forehead  of  flame. 

Alas  for  the  loved  one !  too  spotless  and  fair 
The  joys  of  his  banquet  to  chasten  and  share ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in  his  wine. 

Joy  smiles  in  the  fountain,  health  flows  in  the  rills, 
As  their  ribbons  of  silver  unwind  from  the  hills ; 
They  breathe  not  the  mist  of  the  bacchanal's  dream, 
But  the  lilies  of  innocence  float  on  their  stream. 

Then  a  health  and  a  welcome  to  woman  once  more  ! 
She  brings  us  a  passport  that  laughs  at  our  door ; 
It  is  written  on  crimson,  —  its  letters  are  pearls,  — 

It  is  countersigned  Nature. So,  room  for  tho 

Girls  ! 


120  THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER. 

THE   ONLY  DAUGHTER. 

ILLUSTRATION    OF   A   PICTURE. 

HEY  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings, 

As  if  my  summer  days 
Had  shaken  sunbeams  from  their  wings 

To  warm  my  autumn  lays ; 
They  bring  to  me  their  painted  urn, 

As  if  it  were  not  time 
To  lift  my  gauntlet  and  to  spurn 

The  lists  of  boyish  rhyme  ; 
And,  were  it  not  that  I  have  still 

Some  weakness  in  my  heart 
That  clings  around  my  stronger  will 

And  pleads  for  gentler  art, 
Perchance  I  had  not  turned  away 

The  thoughts  grown  tame  with  toil, 
To  cheat  this  lone  and  pallid  ray, 
That  wastes  the  midnight  oil. 

Alas !  with  every  year  I  feel 

Some  roses  leave  my  brow ; 
Too  young  for  wisdom's  tardy  seal, 

Too  old  for  garlands  now ; 
Yet,  while  the  dewy  breath  of  spring 

Steals  o'er  the  tingling  air, 
And  spreads  and  fans  each  emerald  wing 

The  forest  soon  shall  wear, 
How  bright  the  opening  year  would  seem, 

Had  I  one  look  like  thine, 
To  meet  me  when  the  morning  beam 

Unseals  these  lids  of  mine ! 


THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER.  lai 

Too  long  I  bear  this  lonely  lot, 

That  bids  my  heart  run  wild 
To  press  the  lips  that  love  me  not, 

To  clasp  the  stranger's  child. 

How  oft  beyond  the  dashing  seas, 

Amidst  those  royal  bowers, 
Where  danced  the  lilacs  in  the  breeze, 

And  swung  the  chestnut-flowers, 
I  wandered  like  a  wearied  slave 

Whose  morning  task  is  done, 
To  watch  the  little  hands  that  gave 

Their  whiteness  to  the  sun  ; 
To  revel  in  the  bright  young  eyes, 

Whose  lustre  sparkled  through 
The  sable  fringe  of  Southern  skies 

Or  gleamed  in  Saxon  blue  ! 
How  oft  I  heard  another's  name 

Called  in  some  truant's  tone ; 
Sweet  accents  !  which  I  longed  to  claim, 

To  learn  and  lisp  my  own ! 

Too  soon  the  gentle  hands,  that  pressed 

The  ringlets  of  the  child, 
Are  folded  on  the  faithful  breast 

Where  first  he  breathed  and  smiled ; 
Too  oft  the  clinging  arms  untwine, 

The  melting  lips  forget, 
And  darkness  veils  the  bridal  shrine 

Where  wreaths  and  torches  met ; 
If  Heaven  but  leaves  a  single  thread 

Of  Hope's  dissolving  chain, 
Even  when  her  parting  plumes  are  spread, 

It  bids  them  fold  again ; 


LEXINGTON. 

The  cradle  rocks  beside  the  tomb ; 

The  cheek  now  changed  and  chill 
Smiles  on  us  in  the  morning  bloom 

Of  one  that  loves  us  still. 

Sweet  image  !  I  have  done  thee  wrong 

To  claim  this  destined  lay ; 
The  leaf  that  asked  an  idle  song 

Must  bear  my  tears  away. 
Yet,  in  thy  memory  shouldst  thou  keep 

This  else  forgotten  strain, 
Till  years  have  taught  thine  eyes  to  weep, 

And  flattery's  voice  is  vain  ; 
O  then,  thou  fledgling  of  the  nest, 

Like  the  long-wandering  dove, 
Thy  weary  heart  may  faint  for  rest, 

As  mine,  on  changeless  love ; 
And  while  these  sculptured  lines  retrace 

The  hours  now  dancing  by, 
This  vision  of  thy  girlish  grace 

May  cost  thee,  too,  a  sigh. 


LEXINGTON. 

LOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was 

creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the 

sun, 
When  from  his   couch,  while  his   children  were 

sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 


LEXINGTON.  1^3 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met ; 
Hark !  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look  !  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is  wet ! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 

Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died  " ; 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 

Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hill-sides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come ; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder-burst  roll- 

ing> 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 
Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 
Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 

Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall ; 
Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 
Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 
Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 

Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein ; 


124  LEXINGTON. 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale ; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying  ! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest,  — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 

Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won ! 


THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG.       125 


THE   ISLAND   HUNTING-SONG. 

0  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sere, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 
_         Around  the  dying  year  ; 
So,  ere  the  waning  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 
With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 
We  '11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hounds 

Eeturn  the  hunter's  call ; 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  shrill,  — 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away ! 

No  bars  of  steel,  or  walls  of  stone, 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round; 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 
That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 

To  rale  amid  our  island-state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  1 


126          QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS. 

And  who  will  be  awhile  content 
To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 

And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 
The  reeking  track  of  fame  ? 

Ah,  who  that  shares  in  toils  like  these 

Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 
Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Robin  Hood. 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS. 

HERE,  O  where  are  the  visions  of  morn 
ing, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like   tenants   that   quit   without 

warning, 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  O  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers,  — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score, 


A   CENTENNIAL  SONG.  127 

Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone  like  our  friend  vrodais  &xvs  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 
Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 

Vows  of  unheard  of  and  endless  devotion, 
How  ye  have  faded  away  ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty  river 
Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 

Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  forever, 
Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 


A   SONG 

FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OP  HAR 
VARD  COLLEGE,  1836. 

HEN  the  Puritans  came  over, 

Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts, 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks'  heads  look  queer ;  — 
O  the  ship  from  England  used  to  bring 
A  hundred  wigs  a  year ! 

The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 
To  pluck  the  pilgrims'  corn, 

The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 
Whene'er  a  babe-  was  born. 


A   CENTENNIAL  SONG. 

The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  but  of  the  old  ram's  horn 

The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 
On  every  «  Sabbath  "  morn. 

But  soon  they  knocked  the  wigwams  down, 

And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 

In  shape  of  steeples  slim ; 
And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 

Along  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  up  the  little  school-house  shot 

To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 

And,  when  at  length  the  College  rose, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by : 
But  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  words 

Came  tumbling  from  their  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squaws. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son ; 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun ;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one ! 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 
That  commons  now  afford, 


TERPSICHORE.  129 

But  succotash  and  homony 

Were  smoking  on  the  board ; 

They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 
Or  dash  in  long-tail  blues, 

But  always  on  Commencement  days 
The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough ; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 

And  tender  maids  are  tough ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  rough ! 


TERPSICHORE* 

N  narrowest  girdle,  O  reluctant  Muse, 
In  closest  frock  and  Cinderella  shoes, 
Bound  to  the  foot-lights  for  thy  brief 

display, 
One  zephyr  step,  and  then  dissolve  away ! 


SHORT  is  the  space  that  gods  and  men  can  spare 
To  Song's  twin  brother  when  she  is  not  there. 
Let  others  water  every  lusty  line, 
As  Homer's  heroes  did  their  purple  wine ; 

*  Read  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the   *  B  K  Society,  at 
Cambridge,  August  24,  1843. 
9 


1 3o  TERPSICHORE. 

Pierian  revellers !     Know  in  strains  like  these 
The  native  juice,  the  real  honest  squeeze,  — 
Strains  that,  diluted  to  the  twentieth  power, 
In  yon  grave  temple*  might  have  filled  an  hour. 

Small  room  for  Fancy's  many-chorded  lyre, 

For  Wit's  bright  rockets  with  their  trains  of  fire, 

For  Pathos,  struggling  vainly  to  surprise 

The  iron  tutor's  tear-denying  eyes, 

For  Mirth,  whose  finger  with  delusive  wile 

Turns  the  grim  key  of  many  a  rusty  smile, 

For  Satire,  emptying  his  corrosive  flood 

On  hissing  Folly's  gas-exhaling  brood, 

The  pun,  the  fun,  the  moral  and  the  joke, 

The  hit,  the  thrust,  the  pugilistic  poke,  — 

Small  space  for  these,  so  pressed  by  niggard  Time, 

Like  that  false  matron,  known  to  nursery  rhyme,  — 

Insidious  Morey,  —  scarce  her  tale  begun, 

Ere  listening  infants  weep  the  story  done. 

O  had  we  room  to  rip  the  mighty  bags 
That  Time,  the  harlequin,  has  stuffed  with  rags  I 
Grant  us  one  moment  to  unloose  the  strings, 
While  the  old  graybeard  shuts  his  leather  wings. 
But  what  a  heap  of  motley  trash  appears 
Crammed  in  the  bundles  of  successive  years ! 
As  the  lost  rustic  on  some  festal  day 
Stares  through  the  concourse  in  its  vast  array, — 
Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  faces  runs, 
All  stuck  together  like  a  sheet  of  buns,  — 
And  throws  the  bait  of  some  unheeded  name, 
Or  shoots  a  wink  with  most  uncertain  aim, 

*  The  Annual  Poem  is  always  delivered  in  the  neighbor 
ing  church. 


TERPSICHORE.  131 

So  roams  my  vision,  wandering  over  all, 

And  strives  to  choose,  but  knows  not  where  to  fall. 

Skins  of  flayed  authors, — husks  of  dead  reviews, — 
The  turn-coat's  clothes, — the  office-seeker's  shoes,  — 
Scraps  from  cold  feasts,  where  conversation  runs 
Through  mouldy  toasts  to  oxidated  puns, 
And  grating  songs  a  listening  crowd  endures, 
Rasped  from  the  throats  of  bellowing  amateurs  ;  — 
Sermons,   whose   writers   played   such   dangerous 

tricks 

Their  own  heresiarchs  called  them  heretics, 
(Strange  that  one  term  such  distant  poles  should 

link, 

The  Priestleyan's  copper  and  the  Puseyan's  zinc ;)  — 
Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 
A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 
Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  ed, 
Like  old  dragoons,  have  cuts  across  the  head ;  — 
Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  despair 
To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was  there, 
"Where  our  poor  English,  striped  with  foreign  phrase, 
Looks  like  a  Zebra  in  a  parson's  chaise  ;  — 
Lectures  that  cut  our  dinners  down  to  roots, 
Or  prove  (by  monkeys)  men  should  stick  to  fruits  ; 
Delusive  error,  —  as  at  trifling  charge 
Professor  Gripes  will  certify  at  large ;  — 
Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  appeal, 
Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught  eel ;  — 
And  figured  heads,  whose  hieroglyphs  invite 
To  wandering  knaves  that  discount  fools  at  sight ;  — 
Such  things  as  these,  with  heaps  of  unpaid  bills, 
And  candy  puffs  and  homoeopathic  pills, 
And  ancient  bell-crowns  with  contracted  rim, 
And  bonnets  hideous  with  expanded  brim, 


I3a  TERPSICHORE. 

And  coats  whose  memory  turns  the  sartor  pale, 
Their  sequels  tapering  like  a  lizard's  tail ;  — 
How  might  we  spread  them  to  the  smiling  day, 
And  toss  them,  fluttering  like  the  new-mown  hay, 
To  laughter's  light  or  sorrow's  pitying  shower, 
"Were  these  brief  minutes  lengthened  to  an  hour. 

The  narrow  moments  fit  like  Sunday  shoes, 
How  vast  the  heap,  how  quickly  must  we  choose ; 
A  few  small  scraps  from  out  his  mountain  mass 
We  snatch  in  haste,  and  let  the  vagrant  pass. 

This  shrunken  CRUST  that  Cerberus  could  not  bite, 
Stamped  (in  one  corner)  "  Pickwick  copyright," 
Kneaded  by  youngsters,  raised  by  flattery's  yeast, 
Was  once  a  loaf,  and  helped  to  make  a  feast. 
He  for  whose  sake  the  glittering  show  appears 
Has  sown  the  world  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 
And  they  whose  welcome  wets  the  bumper's  brim 
Have  wit  and  wisdom,  —  for  they  all  quote  him. 
So,  many  a  tongue  the  evening  hour  prolongs 
With  spangled  speeches,  —  let  alone  the  songs,  — 
Statesmen  grow  merry,  lean  attorneys  laugh, 
And  weak  teetotals  warm  to  half  and  half, 
And  beardless  Tullys,  new  to  festive  scenes, 
Cut  their  first  crop  of  youth's  precocious  greens, 
And  wits  stand  ready  for  impromptu  claps, 
With  loaded  barrels  and  percussion  caps, 
And  Pathos,  cantering  through  the  minor  keys, 
Waves  all  her  onions  to  the  trembling  breeze ; 
While  the  great  Feasted  views  with  silent  glee 
His  scattered  limbs  in  Yankee  fricassee. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friendship  plays 
The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging  praise ; 


TERPSICHORE.  j  3  3 

Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 

Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art ; 

Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully  withdraws 

And  sheathes  in  velvet  her  obnoxious  claws, 

And  thrills  the  hand  that  smooths  her  glossy  fur 

With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful  purr. 

But  what  sad  music  fills  the  quiet  hall, 

If  on  her  back  a  feline  rival  fall ; 

And  0,  what  noises  shake  the  tranquil  house, 

If  old  Self-interest  cheats  her  of  a  mouse  ! 


Thou,  O  my  country,  hast  thy  foolish  ways, 

Too  apt  to  purr  at  every  stranger's  praise ; 

But,  if  the  stranger  touch  thy  modes  or  laws, 

Off  goes  the  velvet  and  out  come  the  claws ! 

And  thou,  Illustrious  !  but  too  poorly  paid 

In  toasts  from  Pickwick  for  thy  great  crusade, 

Though,  while  the  echoes  labored  with  thy  name, 

The  public  trap  denied  thy  little  game, 

Let  other  lips  our  jealous  laws  revile,  — 

The  marble  Talfourd  or  the  rude  Carlyle,  — 

But  on  thy  lids,  that  Heaven  forbids  to  close 

Where'er  the  light  of  kindly  nature  glows, 

Let  not  the  dollars  that  a  churl  denies 

Weigh  like  the  shillings  on  a  dea£  man's  eyes ! 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  be  more  discreetly  blind, 

Nor  ask  to  see  all  wide  extremes  combined. 

Not  in  our  wastes  the  dainty  blossoms  smile, 

That  crowd  the  gardens  of  thy  scanty  isle. 

There  white-cheeked  Luxury  weaves  a  thousand 

charms ;  — 
Here  sun-browned  Labor  swings  his  naked  arms. 


134  TERPSICHORE. 

Long  arc  the  furrows  he  must  trace  between 
The  ocean's  azure  and  the  prairie's  green ; 
Full  many  a  blank  his  destined  realm  displays, 
Yet  see  the  promise  of  his  riper  days  : 
Tar  through  yon  depths  the  panting  engine  moves, 
His  chariots  ringing  in  their  steel-shod  grooves ; 
And  Erie's  naiad  flings  her  diamond  wave 
O'er  the  wild  sea-nymph  in  her  distant  cave ! 
While  tasks  like  these  employ  his  anxious  hours, 
What  if  his  corn-fields  are  not  edged  with  flowers  ? 
Though  bright  as  silver  the  meridian  beams 
Shine  through  the  crystal  of  thine  English  streams, 
Turbid  and  dark  the  mighty  wave  is  whirled 
That  drains  our  Andes  and  divides  a  world ! 

But  lo  !  a  PARCHMENT  !     Surely  it  would  seem 

The  sculptured  impress  speaks  of  power  supreme ; 

Some  grave  design  the  solemn  page  must  claim 

That  shows  so  broadly  an  emblazoned  name ; 

A  sovereign's  promise  !     Look,  the  lines  afford 

All  Honor  gives  when  Caution  asks  his  word : 

There  sacred  Faith  has  laid  her  snow-white  hands, 

And  awful  Justice  knit  her  iron  bands ; 

Yet  every  leaf  is  stained  with  treachery's  dye, 

And  every  letter  crusted  with  a  lie. 

Alas  !  no  treason  has  degraded  yet 

The  Arab's  salt,  the  Indian's  calumet ; 

A  simple  rite,  that  bears  the  wanderer's  pledge, 

Blunts    the    keen    shaft    and    turns    the    dagger's 

edge;  — 

While  jockeying  senates  stop  to  sign  and  seal, 
And  freeborn  statesmen  legislate  to  steal. 
Eise,  Europe,  tottering  with  thine  Atlas  load, 
Turn  thy  proud  eye  to  Freedom's  blest  abode, 


TERPSICHORE.  135 

And  round  her  forehead,  wreathed  with  heavenly- 
flame, 

Bind  the  dark  garland  of  her  daughter's  shame ! 
Ye  ocean  clouds,  that  wrap  the  angry  blast, 
Coil  her  stained  ensign  round  its  haughty  mast, 
Or  tear  the  fold  that  wears  so  foul  a  scar, 
And  drive  a  bolt  through  every  blackened  star ! 

Once  more,  — once  only,  — we  must  stop  so  soon,  — 
What  have  we  here  ?     A  GERMAN-SILVER,  SPOON  ; 
A  cheap  utensil,  which  we  often  see 
Used  by  the  dabblers  in  aesthetic  tea, 
Of  slender  fabric,  somewhat  light  and  thin, 
Made  of  mixed  metal,  chiefly  lead  and  tin ; 
The  bowl  is  shallow,  and  the  handle  small, 
Marked  in  large  letters  with  the  name  JEAN  PAUL. 
Small  as  it  is,  its  powers  are  passing  strange, 
For  all  who  use  it  show  a  wondrous  change ; 
And  first,  a  fact  to  make  the  barbers  stare, 
It  beats  Macassar  for  the  growth  of  hair ; 
Sec  those  small  youngsters  whose  expansive  ears 
Maternal  kindness  grazed  with  frequent  shears ; 
Each  bristling  crop  a  dangling  mass  becomes, 
And  all  the  spoonies  turn  to  Absaloms  ! 
Nor  this  alone  its  magic  power  displays, 
It  alters  strangely  all  their  works  and  ways ; 
With  uncouth  words  they  tire  their  tender  lungs, 
The  same  bald  phrases  on  their  hundred  tongues ; 
"  Ever  "  "  The  Ages  "  in  their  page  appear, 
"  Alway  "  the  bedlamite  is  called  a  "  Seer  " ; 
On  every  leaf  the  "  earnest "  sage  may  scan, 
Portentous  bore !  their  "  many-sided  "  man,  — 
A  weak  eclectic,  groping  vague  and  dim, 
Whose  every  angle  is  a  half-starved  whim, 


1 3  6  TERPSICHORE. 

Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx, 
Who  rides  a  beetle,  which  he  calls  a  "  Sphinx." 
And  O  what  questions  asked  in  club-foot  rhyme 
Of  Earth  the  tongueless  and  the  deaf-mute  Time ! 
Here  babbling  "  Insight  "  shouts  in  Nature's  ears 
His  last  conundrum  on  the  orbs  and  spheres ; 
There  Self-inspection  sucks  its  little  thumb, 
With  "Whence  am  I?"  and  "Wherefore  did  I 

come  ?  " 

Deluded  infants  !  will  they  ever  know 
Some  doubts  must  darken  o'er  the  world  below, 
Though  all  the  Platos  of  the  nursery  trail 
Their  "  clouds  of  glory  "  at  the  go-cart's  tail  ? 
O  might  these  couplets  their  attention  claim, 
That  gain  their  author  the  Philistine's  name ; 
(A  stubborn  race,  that,  spurning  foreign  law, 
Was  much  belabored  with  an  ass's  jaw  !) 

Melodious  Laura !     From  the  sad  retreats 

That  hold  thee,  smothered  with  excess  of  sweets, 

Shade  of  a  shadow,  spectre  of  a  dream, 

Glance  thy  wan  eye  across  the  Stygian  stream  ! 

The  slip-shod  dreamer  treads  thy  fragrant  halls, 

The  sophist's  cobwebs  hang  thy  roseate  walls, 

And  o'er  the  crotchets  of  thy  jingling  tunes 

The  bard  of  mystery  scrawls  his  crooked  "  runes. " 

Yes,  thou  art  gone,  with  all  the  tuneful  hordes 

That  candied  thoughts  in  amber-colored  words, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  thy  late  abodes 

The  clattering  verse-wright  hammers  Orphic  odes. 

Thou,  soft  as  zephyr,  wast  content  to  fly 

On  the  gilt  pinions  of  a  balmy  sigh ; 

He,  vast  as  Phosbus  on  his  burning  wheels, 

Would  stride  through  ether  at  Orion's  heels ; 


URANIA.  137 

Thy  emblem,  Laura,  was  a  perfume-jar, 
And  thine,  young  Orpheus,  is  a  pewter  star ; 
The  balance  trembles,  —  be  its  verdict  told 
When  the  new  jargon  slumbers  with  the  old ! 


Cease,  playful  goddess  !    From  thine  airy  bound 
Drop  like  a  feather  softly  to  the  ground ; 
This  light  bolero  grows  a  ticklish  dance, 
And  there  is  mischief  in  thy  kindling  glance. 
To-morrow  bids  thee,  with  rebuking  frown, 
Change  thy  gauze  tunic  for  a  home-made  gown, 
Too  blest  by  fortune,  if  the  passing  day 
Adorn  thy  bosom  with  its  frail  bouquet, 
But  O  still  happier  if  the  next  forgets 
Thy  daring  steps  and  dangerous  pirouettes ! 


URANIA: 

A    RHYMED    LESSON.* 

ES,  dear  Enchantress, — wandering  far 

and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of 

song, 

Where  flowers  ill-flavored  shed  their  sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial  ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom  mine, 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 

*  This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Boston  Mercantile 
Library  Association,  October  14,  1846. 


138  URANIA: 

Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of  rhyme 
That  blue-eyed  misses  warble  out  of  time  ;  — 
Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of  toil, 
I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil ; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne ! 

My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded  hall ; 
Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know  my  audience.     All  the  gay  and  young 
Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue ; 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive  line 
My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and  wine, 
Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaim  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate  for  an  earthquake  laugh; 
I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side ; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous  noise, 
Beside  her  kerchief,  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son ; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line ;  — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward  case, 
And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place. 
I  know  my  audience ;  —  these  shall  have  their  due ; 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is  through ! 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  139 

I  know  myself.     Not  servile  for  applause, 
My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause ; 
Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 
One  bold  confession  due  to  honest  pride ; 
And  well  she  knows  the  drooping  veil  of  song 
Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's  wrong. 
Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid  imparts 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  cur  aching  hearts ; 
For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate,  bound, 
She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound ; 
For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal  pains, 
She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  resounding  chains ; 
Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 
It  lends  one  charm ;  —  her  lips  are  ever  free ! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery  noon, 
To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buffoon ; 
His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may  wield ; 
Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield ! 
Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble  name, 
And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of  fame, 
While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's  lords, 
The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords  ! 
Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts  taught 
To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of  thought, 
Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 
Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling  straw  ? 
Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling  spear 
The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  welcome  here? 
No  !  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of  dreams, 
To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  trifling  themes, 
Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line ; 
You  have  your  judgment ;  will  you  trust  to  mine  ? 


140 


URANIA  : 


BETWEEN  two  breaths  what  crowded  mysteries 

lie,- 

The  first  short  gasp,  the  last  and  long-drawn  sigh ! 
Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic  slide, 
Forth  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  we  glide, 
As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 
In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 
Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging  flame, 
Then  seek  the  dust  and  stillness  whence  we  came. 

But  whence  and  why,  our  trembling  souls  inquire, 
Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awakening  fire  ? 

0  who  forgets  when  first  the  piercing  thought 
Through  childhood's  musings  found  its  way  un 
sought. 

1  AM  ;  — I  LIVE.     The  mystery  and  the  fear 
When  the  dread  question,  WHAT  HAS  BROUGHT 

ME  HERE  ? 

Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before  the  sun 
Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning  gun  ! 

Are  angel  faces,  silent  and  serene, 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose  dream-like  efforts,  whose  unreal  strife, 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  1 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of  all, 
These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they  fall, 
As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 
As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful  dream  1 10 
O  could  such  mockeiy  reach  our  souls  indeed, 
Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athenian's  creed ; 
Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's  device,  — 
Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  paradise ! 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  141 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the  poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the  blaze, 
Lends  a  faint  sparkle  to  its  streaming  rays  ? 
Does  earth  send  upwards  to  the  Eternal's  ear 
The  mingled  discords  of  her  jarring  sphere 
To  swell  his  anthem,  while  creation  rings 
"With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered  strings  ? 
Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 
These  conscious,  throbbing,  agonized  machines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can  bind 
In  chains  like  these  the  all-embracing  Mind ; 
No  !  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  reprove 
The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 
And  praise  a  tyrant  throned  in  lonely  pride, 
Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  naught  beside ; 
Who  gave  thee,  summoned  from  primeval  night, 
A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single  right,  — 
A  heart  to  feel,  and  quivering  nerves  to  thrill, 
The  sense  of  wrong,  the  death-defying  will ; 
Who  girt  thy  senses  with  this  goodly  frame, 
Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 
Not  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 
Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsought, 
But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  supreme, 
The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen  scheme ! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying  scroll, 
Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering  soul ; 
The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  breath  that  warms 
All  living  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 
To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 


I4a  URANIA: 

Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its  radiant 

shores, 

Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 
Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed ; 
For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quickening  void ! 
Nor  this  alone ;   a  larger  gift  was  thine, 
A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  design ; 
Thought,  —  conscience,  —  will,  —  to  make  them  all 

thine  own, 
He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly  dare 
The  thorny  crown  of  sovereignty  to  share. 
With  eye  uplifted,  it  is  thine  to  view, 
From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'erarching  blue ; 
So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 
No  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise ; 
From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is  heard, 
Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's  word, 
Now,  as  in  Eden  where  his  first-born  trod : 
"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man  and  God !  " 

Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  estate ; 
Thou  hast  a  choice  ;  to  choose  is  to  create  ! 
Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee  when  thy  choice  is  well ; 
Remember,  One,  a  judge  of  righteous  men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but  ten ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master  gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate  a  slave  ?) 
And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and  true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect  thee  too  ! 

Nature  has  placed  thee  on  a  changeful  tide, 
To  breast  its  waves,  but  not  without  a  guide ; 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  143 

Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flame, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel ; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced  truth, 
If  passion's  lightning  fall  upon  thy  youth ; 
So  the  pure  effluence  quit  its  sacred  hold, 
Girt  round  too  deeply  with  magnetic  gold. 

Go  to  yon  tower,  where  busy  science  plies 
Her  vast  antenna;,  feeling  through  the  skies  ; 
That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  trembles  as  it  shines, 
A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the  ethereal  arch, 
Tells  through  the  mist  where  dazzled  Mercury  burns, 
And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  returns. 

So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  creation's  laws ; 
Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting  ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation  stray ; 
But,  once  defaced,  forgets  the  orbs  of  light, 
And  leaves  thee  wandering  o'er  the  expanse  of  night. 

"  What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips  inquire  ; 
"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian  spire  1 " 
Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice ; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the  plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars  one  was  built  by  Cain ! 

Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed  we  take ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's  sake ; 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought,    • 


I44  URANIA: 

And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  dew. 
Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier  hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle  flowers ; 
The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to  frozen  doubt; 
Tired  of  beliefs,  we  dread  to  live  without ; 
O  then,  if  Reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  Memory  be  thy  gentle  guide ; 
Go  to  thy  birthplace,  and,  if  faith  was  there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  thy  mother's  prayer ! 

Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroying  arm, 
And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double  charm ; 
In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom, 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb  ! 
There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care  expand, 
And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open  hand ; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 
From  morn's  first  glimmerings  on  the  chancel  floor, 
Till  dying  sunset  sheds  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 

Yet  there  are  graves,  whose  rudely-shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton  trod ; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to  shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wild-flower  has  not  fixed  its  root, 
Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a  name, 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 
Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay ! 

Come,  seek  the  air  ;  some  pictures  we  may  gain 
Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in  vain ; 
Not  from  the  scenes  that  crowd  the  stranger's  soil, 
Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of  toil, 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  145 

But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 
And  Care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of  Peace. 

The  air  is  hushed  ;  the  street  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hark !    The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound ; 
As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung.11 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  shocks  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font  and  forge, 
Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 
Sobmn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang ;  — 
The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 
Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels  "  threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 
Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill ;  — 
Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire ;  — 
The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound ;  — 
While,  gad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 
The  Northern  Minstrel  pours  her  tender  chime, 
Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
10 


I46  URANIA: 

Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  perfumed  breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas ; 
When  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
Prom  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon  ; 
When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tornado  sings, 
And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered  wings,  — 
Oft  wiD  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 
Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire,    ' 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  Avhispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain.-^ 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceitful  gleam, 
My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her  theme ; 
See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered  in  repose 
The  living  current  of  devotion  flows  ; 
Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band, 
Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled  hand, 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges  fall 
To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl, 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to  appear, 
Lift  the  deep  borders  of  the  proud  cashmere* 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  147 

Sec,  but  glance  briefly,  sorrow-worn  and  pale, 
Those  sunken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's  veil ; 
Alone  she  wanders  where  with  him  she  trod, 
No  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on  God. 

While  other  doublets  deviate  here  and  there, 
What  secret  handcuff  binds  that  pretty  pair  ? 
Compactest  couple  !  pressing  side  to  side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the  bride ! 

By  the  white  neckcloth,  with  its  straitened  tie, 
The  sober  hat,  the  Sabbath-speaking  eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may  read 
The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed ; 
Decent  and  slow,  behold  his  solemn  march ; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded  arch. 

A  livelier  bearing  of  the  outward  man, 
The  light-hued  gloves,  the  undevout  ratan, 
Now  smartly  raised  or  half-profanely  twirled,  — 
A  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week-day  world,  — 
Tell  their  plain  story ;  —  yes,  thine  eyes  behold 
A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 

Down  the  chill  street  that  curves  in  gloomiest 

shade 

What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose,  that  speaks  of  balmier  air ; 
The  Celtic  blackness  of  her  braided  hair ; 12 
The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied ; 
Poor  Nora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side ! 

Sister  in  toil,  though  blanched  by  colder  skies, 
That  left  their  azure  in  her  downcast  eyes, 
See  pallid  Margaret,  Labor's  patient  child, 
Scarce  weaned  from  home,  the  nursling  of  the  wild, 
Where  white  Katahdin  o'er  the  horizon  shines, 
And  broad  Pcnobscot  dashes  through  the  pines* 


148  URANfA: 

Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  fingers  hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric  fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's  heavy  wheel  she  stands, 
The  seventh  sweet  morning  folds  her  weary  hands; 
Yes,  child  of  suffering,  thou  may'st  well  be  sure 
He  who  ordained  the  Sabbath  loves  the  poor ! 

This  weekly  picture  faithful  Memory  draws, 
Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause ; 
Faint  is  the  glow  such  ban-en  hopes  can  lend, 
And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier  end. 

Trust  me,  kind  listener,  I  will  yet  beguile 
Thy  saddened  features  of  the  promised  smile ; 
This  magic  mantle  thou  must  well  divide, 
It  has  its  sable  and  its  ermine  side ; 
Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 
Take  thou  in  silence  what  I  give  in  tears. 

Dear  listening  soul,  this  transitory  scene 
Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene,  — 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space  of  man, 
The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan,  — 
Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied  ear ; 
Kise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere ! 

Deal  meekly,  gently,  with  the  hopes  that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy  side ; 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine  own, 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith  esteem 
tThe  sprinkled  fountain  or  baptismal  stream  ; 
Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 
Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of  life  ? 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  149 

Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughtful  Puritan ; 
But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  deride  ? 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died ;  — 
Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister,  risen  from  thy  new-made  grave  ? 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church  reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's  child ; 
Must  tliou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  ? 
See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 
Round  her  young  heart  thy  "  Romish  Upas  "  threw 
Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening  as  she  grew ; 
Thy  sneering  voice  may  call  them  "  Popish  tricks,"  — 
Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  crucifix,  — 
But  De  Profnndis  blessed  her  father's  grave ; 
That  "  idol  "  cross  her  dying  mother  gave  ! 

What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal  eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
Writes  each  dark  fault  against  thy  brighter  creed, 
And  drops  a  tear  with  every  foolish  bead ! 

Grieve,  as  thou  must,  o'er  history's  reeking  page ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier  age ; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath ; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  en*,  the  weak  that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith,  —  but  hope  arid  pray  for  all ! 

Faith ;  Conscience  ;  Love.     A  meaner  task  re 
mains, 
And  humbler  thoughts  must  creep  in  lowlier  strains ; 


1 5o  URANIA: 

Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?     Ask  the  worldly  schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier  fools ; 
Prudent  ?     Industrious  ?     Let  not  modern  pens 
Instruct  "  Poor  Richard's  "  fellow-citizens. 

Be  firm !  one  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine,  solid,  old  Teutonic  pluck ; 
See  yon  tall  shaft ;  it  felt  the  earthquake's  thrill, 
Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise  still. 

Stick  to  your  aim ;  the  mongrel's  hold  will  slip, 
But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip  ; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never  yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the  fields  ! 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back ; 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind  the  coming  track  ; 
Leave  what  you  've  done  for  what  you  have  to  do ; 
Don't  be  "  consistent/'  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets ;  you  have  found  your  place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 
Fretful  to  change,  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss ;  — 
Think  of  the  patriarchs  ;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death ; 
And  with  new  notions,  —  let  me  change  the  rule,  — • 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it 's  slightly  cool. 

Choose  well  your  set ;  our  feeble  nature  seeks 
The  aid  of  clubs,  the  countenance  of  cliques  ; 
And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your  weight  of  metal  and  your  size  of  ball. 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  i5x 

Track  not  the  steps  of  such  as  hold  you  cheap, 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough  to  keep  ; 
The  "  real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Tom  Thumbs  " 
Are  little  people  fed  on  great  men's  crumbs. 

Yet  keep  no  followers  of  that  hateful  brood 
That  basely  mingles  with  its  wholesome  food 
The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  Ms  head. 

If  the  wild  filly,  "  Progress,"  thou  wouldst  ride, 
Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy  side ; 
But,   wouldst   thou   stride   the   stanch   old   mare, 

"  Success," 
Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please  thee  less. 

Shun  such  as  lounge  through  afternoons  and  eves, 
And  on  thy  dial  write,  "Beware  of  thieves  !  " 
Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers  steal, 
Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But  spare  the  right,  —  it  holds  my  golden  time  ! 

Does  praise  delight  thee  ?    Choose  some  ultra  side ; 
A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried ; 
Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  bard, 
Spokesman,  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it  hard ; 
But  know  the  forfeit  which  thy  choice  abides, 
For  on  two  wheels  the  poor  reformer  rides, 
One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery  painted  by  the  pros. 

Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not  out  of  print, 
An  honest  tongue  may  drop  a  harmless  hint. 

Stop  not,  unthinking,  every  friend  you  meet, 
To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street ; 


1 5*  URANIA: 

While  you  are  emptying  your  colloquial  pack, 
The  fiend  Lumbago  jumps  upon  his  back. 

Nor  cloud  his  features  with  the  unwelcome  tale 
Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale ; 
Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his  wife, 
And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 

Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neighbor's  soul, 
Not  on  his  garments,  to  detect  a  hole ; 
"  How  to  observe,"  is  what  thy  pages  show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss  Harriet  Martineau ! 
O,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would  be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  're  not  to  see ! 

I  tell  in  verse,  —  *t  were  better  done  in  prose,  — 
One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows ; 
Once  form  this  habit,  and  it 's  very  strange 
How  long  it  sticks,  how  hard  it  is  to  change. 
Two  friendly  people,  both  disposed  to  smile, 
Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little  while, 
Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 
And  "How  d'  ye  do1?"  or  " How's  your  uncle 

noW?" 

Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 
But  slightly  weak,  and  somewhat  undefined, 
Rush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden  stand, 
Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand ; 
Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  extremely  struck, 
Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of  luck  ; 
Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he 's  greatly  pleased 
To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both  are  squeezed ; 
So  there  they  talk,  in  dust,  or  mud,  or  snow, 
Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to  go ! 

Your  hat  once  lifted,  do  not  hang  your  fire, 
Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  retire ; 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  153 

When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown  you  clap, 
Go  off;  you  've  mounted  your  percussion  cap. 

Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be  well  applied, 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride ; 
Words  lead  to  things ;  a  scale  is  more  precise,  — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking, 
vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth ! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to  talk ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down ; 
Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark,  — he  *s  awkward  in  the  face ;  — 
Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
;The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue ; 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain  : 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true,  — 
No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
The  careless  lips  that  speak  of  soap  for  soap ; 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road ; 


I54  URANIA: 

Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  most, 
But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her  angry  foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

Once  more ;  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 
Don't, — let  me  beg  you, — don't  say  "  How?  "  for 

"  What  ? " 

And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burrs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those  dreadful  urs. 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to  less, 
And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 
The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  reveal,  — 
We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the  peel. 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and  all  the  rest, — 
The  dangerous  waistcoat,  called  by  cockneys  "  vest," 
.  The  things  named  "  pants  "  in  certain  documents, 
A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but  "  gents  "  ; 
One  single  precept  might  the  whole  condense : 
Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense ; 
But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 
And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  demands, 
If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands ; 
If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from  this, 
Have  twice  the  number,  for  he  '11  sometimes  miss. 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  155 

One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex, 
Close  in  the  instep's  clinging  circumflex, 
Long,  narrow,  light ;  the  Gallic  boot  of  lore, 
A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and  glove. 
But,  not  to  tread  on  everlasting  thorns, 
And  sow  in  suffering  what  is  reaped  in  corns, 
Compact,  but  easy,  strong,  substantial,  square, 
Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 
The  third  remains,  and  let  your  tasteful  skill 
Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still ; 
Let  no  stiff  cowhide,  recking  from  the  tan, 
No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  brogan, 
Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your  feet, 
Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through  the  street ; 
But  the  patched  calf-skin  arm  against  the  flood 
In  neat,  light  shoes,  impervious  to  the  mud. 

Wear  seemly  gloves ;  not  black,  nor  yet  too  light, 
And  least  of  all  the  pair  that  once  was  white ; 
Let  the  dead  party  where  you  told  your  loves 
Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and  gloves ; 
Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your  kids. 

Have  a  good  hat ;  the  secret  of  your  looks 
Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks ; 
Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 
But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking  hat. 
Does  beauty  slight  you  from  her  gay  abodes  * 
Like  bright  Apollo,  you  must  take  to  Rhoades, 
Mount  the  new  castor,  —  ice  itself  will  melt; 
Boots,  gloves,  may  fail ;  the  hat  is  always  felt ! 

Be  shy  of  breastpins  ;  plain,  well-ironed  white, 
VVith  small  pearl  buttons, — two  of  them  in  sight, — « 


156  URANIA: 

Is  always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may  pass, 
Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  glass ; 
But  spurn  those  paltry  Cisatlantic  lies, 
That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic  ties ; 
Breathe  not  the  name,  profaned  to  hallow  things 
The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when  she  brings ! 

Our  frccborn  race,  averse  to  every  check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of  Europe  from  its  neck; 
From  the  green  prairie  to  the  sea-girt  town, 
The  whole  wide  nation  turns  its  collars  down. 

The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manliest  part  5 
It  takes  the  life-blood  freshest  from  the  heart ; 
With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around  it  spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian  head ! 
Thine,  fair  Erechtheus  of  Minerva's  wall ;  — 
Or  thine,  young  athlete  of  the  Louvre's  hall, 
Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in  the  sun 
That  filled  the  arena  where  thy  wreaths  were  won,-— 
Firm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered  spoil, 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil ! 

I  spare  the  contrast ;  it  were  only  kind 
To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind : 
Choose  for  yourself :  I  know  it  cuts  }^our  ear ; 
I  know  tjie  points  will  sometimes  interfere ; 
I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 
Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  drapery  on, 
You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished  town 
With  one  side  standing  and  the  other  down ;  — 
But,  O  my  friend  !  my  favorite  fellow-man  ! 
If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern  plan, 
Sooner  than  wander  with  your  windpipe  bare,  -». 
Tjie  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  157 

With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protruding  chin, 
Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made  of  tin ! 
And  have  a  neck-cloth,  —  by  the  throat  of  Jove ! 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove ! 

The  long-drawn  lesson  narrows  to  its  close, 
Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  current  flows ; 
Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward  wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhallowed  tongue, 
Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had  sung ; 
But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 
Of  all  the  essentials  of  the  "  native  bard  "  ? 

Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  mountain,  fall, 
His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them  all ; 
The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest  tides 
His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant  strides, 
Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri  rolls, 
And  tread  at  once  the  tropics  and  the  poles ; 
His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water,  air, 
His  home  all  space,  his  birthplace  everywhere. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen  perhaps 
The  pictured  page  that  goes'  in  Worcester's  Maps, 
And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 
"  Who  drives  fat  oxen  "  —  please  to  add  the  rest,— 
Sprung  the  odd  notion  that  the  poet's  dreams 
Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams ; 
And  hence  insisted  that  the  aforesaid  "  bard," 
Pink  of  the  future,  —  fancy's  pattern-card,  — 
The  babe  of  nature  in  the  "  giant  West," 
Must  be  of  course  her  biggest  and  her  best. 


I58  URANIA: 

But,  were  it  true  that  nature's  fostering  sun 
Saves  all  its  daylight  for  that  favorite  one, 
If  for  his  forehead  every  wreath  she  means, 
And  we,  poor  children,  must  not  touch  the  greens; 
Since  rocks  and  rivers  cannot  take  the  road 
To  seek  the  elected  in  his  own  abode, 
Some  voice  must  answer,  for  her  precious  heir, 
One  solemn  question,  —  Who  shall  pay  his  fare  ? 

O  when  at  length  the  expected  bard  shall  come, 
Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike  thine  echoes  dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
It 's  getting  late,  and  he  's  behind  his  time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands  in  joy, 
And  all  thy  cataracts  thunder,  "  That 's  the  boy/' — 
Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall  end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ? 

Be  calm,  dear  brother  !  whose  impassioned  strain 
Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain ; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho ; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't  mind  their  nonsense,  —  never  be  afraid  ! 

The  nurse  of  poets  feeds  her  winged  brood 
By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food ; 
In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 
Where  bovine  rustics  used  to  doze  and  dream, 
She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 
While  old  John  Shakespeare  talked  of  beeves  and 
wool ! 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing  spire, 
Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean  fire, 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  159 

If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 

Uriblest  by  any  save  the  goatherd's  lines, 
Mont   Blanc   rose   soaring  through   his    "sea  of 

pines  " ; 

In  vain  the  Arve  and  Arveiron  dash, 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des  Vaches, 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white, 
And  lo,  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a  tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung  ! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is  given 
One  spot  of  green,  and  all  the  blue  of  heaven  ! 
Enough,  if  these  their  outward  shows  impart ; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the  heart. 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they  flow; 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom  distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered  thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarize  thy  brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid  strain,  — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom, 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's  gloom, 
Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy  line ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song  divine ! 

Let  others  gaze  where  silvery  streams  arc  rolled, 
And  chase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of  gold ; 
To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly  dye, 
Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic  eye  ; 
Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  flows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  arc  stirred,  — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd  ! 


160  URANIA: 

A  few  brief  lines  ;  they  touch  on  solemn  chords, 
And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  honest  words ; 
Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle-blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing  tone. 

New  England  !  proudly  may  thy  children  claim 
Their  honored  birthright  by  its  humblest  name ! 
Cold  are  thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh  and  clear, 
No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmosphere ; 
No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty  soil, 
Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslumbering  toil. 
Long  may  the  doctrines  by  thy  sages  taught, 
Raised  from  the  quarries  where  their  sires  have 

wrought, 

Be  like  the  granite  of  thy  rock-ribbed  land,  — 
As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand ; 
And  as  the  ice,  that  leaves  thy  crystal  mine, 
Chills  the  fierce  alcohol  in  the  Creole's  wine, 
So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep  the  hot  theories  of  thy  neighbors  cool ! 

If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 
Cankered  by  treachery,  or  inflamed  by  wrath, 
With  smooth  "  Resolves,"  or  with  discordant  cries, 
The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 
Chiefs  of  New  England  !  by  your  sires'  renown, 
Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down ! 
Flood  his  black  hearthstone  till  its  flames  expire, 
Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his  council-fire ! 

But  if  at  last  —  her  fading  cycle  run  — 
The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm  has  won, 
Then  rise,  wild  Ocean  !  roll  thy  surging  shock 
Jfull  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock  ! 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  161 

Scale  the  proud  shaft  degenerate  hands  have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Yalor  stained  the  flowers  of  June ! 
Sweep  in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets  down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above  Monadnock's  crown  ! 

List  not  the  tale ;  the  Pilgrim's  hallowed  shore, 
Though  strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at  the  core ; 
O  rather  trust  that  He  who  made  her  free 
Will  keep  her  true,  as  long  as  faith  shall  be  ! 

Earewell !  yet  lingering  through  the  destined  hour, 
Leave,  sweet  Enchantress,  one  memorial  flower ! 

An  Angel,  floating  o'er  the  waste  of  snow 
That  clad  our  Western  desert,  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit,  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone  as  a  star  along  the  Mayflower's  way,) 
Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly  plan, 
To  choose  on  earth  a  resting-place  for  man,  — 
Tired  with  his  flight  along  the  unvaried  field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance  revealed 
A  calm,  bright  bay,  enclosed  in  rocky  bounds, 
And  at  its  entrance  stood  three  sister  mounds. 

The  Angel  spake  :  "  This  threefold  hill  shall  be13 
The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty  ! 
One  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall  pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze  along  the  darkened  shore ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts,  that,  kindling  far  and  wide, 
In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's  guide. 
One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's  frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling  heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his  rights ! 
ii 


1 62,  THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION. 

One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's  grave  ; 
When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living  green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of  Hope, 
Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope  ; 
There  through  all  time  shall  faithful  Memory  tell, 
'  Here  Virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  Valor  fell ; 
Thy  free,  proud  fathers  slumber  at  thy  side ; 
Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they  died  ! ' " 


THE   PILGRIM'S   VISION. 

N  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 
The  Puritan  looked  out ; 
He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat, 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 

And  bald  enough  of  that ; 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat ; 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION.  163 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow ; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,  — 

A  dream  of  long  ago,  — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 

And  murmured,  "  Even  so ! " 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea ; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning,  — 

So  may  its  ending  be ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

«*  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened ;  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng ; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 


1 64  THE  PILGRIMS  VISION. 

"  They  slept,  —  the  village  fathers,  — 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more ; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye ; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try ; 
God  for  the  right !  I  faltered, 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

«  Once  more ;  —  the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Has  helped  our  Israel's  side ; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

"  A  crash,  —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Boll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION.  165 

"  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  —  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

"  O  trembling  Faith !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine ! 

"  I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on ; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  <  land  of  flowers' ! 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  showers ; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours  !  " 

He  ceased, — the  grim  old  Puritan,— 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear ; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 


1 66  THE  PILGRIMS  VISION. 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed. 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown ; 
IDs  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled ! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 
That  guard  this  holy  strand 

Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 
In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 

While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 

Be  this  its  latest  legend,  — 

WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


A  MODEST  REQUEST.  167 

A  MODEST   BEQUEST. 

COMPLIED    WITH   AFTER    THE    DINNER   AT   PRESI 
DENT  EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION. 

GENE,  —  a   back   parlor   in   a   certain 

square, 
Or  court,  or  lane,  —  in  short,  no  matter 

where ; 

Time,  —  early  morning,  dear  to  simple  souls 
Who  love  its  sunshine,  and  its  fresh-baked  rolls ; 
Persons,  —  take  pity  on  this  telltale  blush, 
That,  like  the  JEthiop,  whispers,  "Hush,  O  hush!" 

Delightful  scene  !  where  smiling  comfort  broods, 

Nor  business  frets,  nor  anxious  care  intrudes ; 

0  si  sic  omnia  I  were  it  ever  so  ! 

But  what  is  stable  in  this  world  below  ? 

Medio  efonte,  —  Virtue  has  her  faults,  — 

The  clearest  fountains  taste  of  Epsom  salts ; 

We  snatch  the  cup  and  lift  to  drain  it  dry,  — 

Its  central  dimple  holds  a  drowning  fly ! 

Strong  is  the  pine  by  Maine's  ambrosial  streams, 

But  stronger  augers  pierce  its  thickest  beams ; 

No  iron  gate,  no  spiked  and  panelled  door, 

Can  keep  out  death,  the  postman,  or  the  bore  ;  — • 

O  for  a  world  where  peace  and  silence  reign, 

And  blunted  dulness  terebrates  in  vain ! 

—  The  door-bell  jingles,  —  enter  Richard  Fox, 

And  takes  this  letter  from  his  leathern  box. 

"  Dear  Sir, 

In  writing  on  a  former  day, 
One  little  matter  I  forgot  to  say ; 


1 68  A  MODEST  HE  QUEST. 

I  now  inform  you  in  a  single  line, 
On  Thursday  next  our  purpose  is  to  dine. 
The  act  of  feeding,  as  you  understand, 
Is  but  a  fraction  of  the  work  in  hand ; 
Its  nobler  half  is  that  ethereal  meat 
The  papers  call  <  the  intellectual  treat ' ; 
Songs,  speeches,  toasts,  around  the  festive  boarft 
Drowned  in  the  juice  the  College  pumps  afford ; 
!For  only  water  flanks  our  knives  and  forks, 
So,  sink  or  float,  we  swim  without  the  corks. 
Yours  is  the  art,  by  native  genius  taught, 
To  clothe  in  eloquence  the  naked  thought ; 
Yours  is  the  skill  its  music  to  prolong 
Through  the  sweet  effluence  of  mellifluous  songj 
Yours  the  quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy  line 
That  cracks  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine ; 
And  since  success  your  various  gifts  attends, 
We  —  that  is  I  and  all  your  numerous  friends  — * 
Expect  from  you  —  your  single  self  a  host  — 
A  speech,  a  song,  excuse  me,  and  a  toast ; 
Nay,  not  to  haggle  on  so  small  a  claim, 
A  few  of  each,  or  several  of  the  same. 

(Signed,)  Yours,  most  truly, " 

No  !  my  sight  must  fail,  — 
If  that  ain't  Judas  on  the  largest  scale ! 


"Well,  this  is  modest ;  —  nothing  else  than  that  ? 
My  coat  ?  my  boots  ?  my  pantaloons  ?  my  hat  ? 
My  stick  ?  my  gloves  ?  as  well  as  all  my  wits, 
Learning  and  linen,  —  everything  that  fits  ! 

Jack,  said  my  lady,  is  it  grog  you  '11  try, 
Or  punch,  or  toddy,  if  perhaps  you  're  dry  ? 


A  MODEST  BEQUEST.  169 

Ah,  said  the  sailor,  though  I  can't  refuse, 
You  know,  my  lady,  't  ain't  for  me  to  choose ;  — 
I  '11  take  the  grog  to  finish  off  my  lunch, 
And  drink  the  toddy  while  you  mix  the  punch. 


THE  SPEECH.     (The  speaker,  rising  to  he  seen, 

Looks  very  red,  because  so  very  green.) 

I  rise  —  I  rise  —  with  unaffected  fear, 

(Louder !  —  speak  louder  !  —  who  the  deuce   can 

hear?) 
I  rise  —  I  said  —  with  undisguised  dismay  — 

—  Such  are  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say ! 
Quite  unprepared  to  face  this  learned  throng, 
Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song ; 
Around  my  view  are  ranged  on  either  hand 
The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue,  of  the  land ; 

"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed  " 
Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade ; 
Would  you  like  Homer  learn  to  write  and  speak, 
That  bench  is  groaning  with  its  weight  of  Greek ; 
Behold  the  naturalist  that  in  his  teens 
Found  six  new  species  in  a  dish  of  greens ; 
And  lo,  the  master  in  a  statelier  walk, 
Whose  annual  ciphering  takes  a  ton  of  chalk ; 
And  there  the  linguist,  that  by  common  roots 
Thro'  all  their  nurseries  tracks  old  Noah's  shoots,  — • 
How  Shem's  proud  children  reared  the  Assyrian 

piles, 
While  Ham's  were  scattered  through  the  Sandwich 

Isles! 

—  Fired  at  the  thought  of  all  the  present  shows, 
My  kindling  fancy  down  the  future  flows : 


1 70  A  MODEST  REQUEST. 

I  see  the  glory  of  the  coming  days 
O'er  Time's  horizon  shoot  its  streaming  rays ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  radiant  morning  draws 
In  living  lustre  (rapturous  applause) ; 
From  east  to  west  the  blazing  heralds  run, 
Loosed  from  the  chariot  of  the  ascending  sun, 
Through  the  long  vista  of  uncounted  years 
In  cloudless  splendor  (three  tremendous  cheers). 
My  eye  prophetic,  as  the  depths  unfold, 
Sees  a  new  advent  of  the  age  of  gold ; 
While  o'er  the  scene  new  generations  press, 
New  heroes  rise  the  coming  time  to  bless,  — 
Not  such  as  Homer's,  who,  we  read  in  Pope, 
Dined  without  forks  and  never  heard  of  soap,  — 
Not  such  as  May  to  Marlborough  Chapel  brings, 
Lean,  hungry,  savage,  anti-everythings, 
Copies  of  Luther  in  the  pasteboard  style,  — 
But  genuine  articles,  —  the  true  Carlyle ; 
While  far  on  high  the  blazing  orb  shall  shed 
Its  central  light  on  Harvard's  holy  head, 
And  Learning's  ensigns  ever  float  unfurled 
Here  in  the  focus  of  the  new-born  world  1 

The  speaker  stops,  and,  trampling  down  the  pause, 
Roars  through  the  hall  the  thunder  of  applause, 
One  stormy  gust  of  long-suspended  Ahs  ! 
One  whirlwind  chaos  of  insane  hurrahs  I 


THE  SONG.     But  this  demands  a  briefer  line,  — 
A  shorter  muse,  and  not  the  old  long  Nine ;  — 
Long  metre  answers  for  a  common  song, 
Though  common  metre  does  not  answer  long. 


A  MODEST  REQUEST.  j7i 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome 

To  seek  its  peaceful  shade, 
An  exile  from  her  ancient  home,  — 

A  poor,  forsaken  maid ; 
No  banner,  flaunting  high  above, 

No  blazoned  cross,  she  bore  ; 
One  holy  book  of  light  and  love 

Was  all  her  worldly  store. 

The  dark  brown  shadows  passed  away, 

And  wider  spread  the  green, 
And,  where  the  savage  used  to  stray, 

The  rising  mart  was  seen  ; 
So,  when  the  laden  winds  had  brought 

Their  showers  of  golden  rain, 
Her  lap  some  precious  gleanings  caught, 

Like  Ruth's  amid  the  grain. 

But  wrath  soon  gathered  uncontrolled 

Among  the  baser  churls, 
To  see  her  ankles  red  with  gold, 

Her  forehead  white  with  pearls  ; 
"  Who  gave  to  thee  the  glittering  bands 

That  lace  thine  azure  veins  "? 
Who  bade  thee  lift  those  snow-white  hands 

We  bound  in  gilded  chains  ?  " 

These  are  the  gems  my  children  gave, 

The  stately  dame  replied; 
The  wise,  the  gentle,  and  the  brave, 

I  nurtured  at  my  side ; 
If  envy  still  your  bosom  stings, 

Take  back  their  rims  of  gold ; 
My  sons  will  melt  their  wedding-rings, 

And  give  a  hundred-fold ! 


I7*  A  MODEST  REQUEST. 

THE  TOAST.     O  tell  me,  ye  who  thoughtless  ask 

Exhausted  nature  for  a  threefold  task, 

In  wit  or  pathos  if  one  share  remains, 

A  safe  investment  for  an  ounce  of  brains  ? 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate  pun, 

A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one. 

Turned  by  the  current  of  some  stronger  wit 

Back  from  the  object  that  you  mean  to  hit, 

Like  the  strange  missile  which  the  Australian  throws, 

Your  verbal  boomerang  slaps  you  on  the  nose. 

One  vague  inflection  spoils  the  whole  with  doubt, 

One  trivial  letter  ruins  all,  left  out ; 

A  knot  can  choke  a  felon  into  clay, 

A  not  will  save  him,  spelt  without  the  k ; 

The  smallest  word  has  some  unguarded  spot, 

And  danger  lurks  in  i  without  a  dot. 

Thus  great  Achilles,  who  had  shown  his  zeal 
In  healing  wounds,  died  of  a  wounded  heel ; 
Unhappy  chief,  who,  when  in  childhood  doused, 
Had  saved  his  bacon,  had  his  feet  been  soused ! 
Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout ! 
O,  had  your  mother  known  that  you  were  out, 
Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling  part 
That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon's  art 
With  corns  and  bunions,  —  not  the  glorious  John, 
Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pondered  on,  — 
But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose, 
To  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  unrelenting  foes ! 


A  health,  unmingled  with  the  reveller's  wine, 
To  him  whose  title  is  indeed  divine ; 
Truth's  sleepless  watchman  on  her  midnight  tower, 
Whose  lamp  burns  brightest  when  the  tempests  lower. 


A  MODEST  REQUEST.  173 

O  who  can  tell  with  what  a  leaden  flight 
Drag  the  long  watches  of  his  weary  night ; 
While  at  his  feet  the  hoarse  and  blinding  gale 
Strews  the  torn  wreck  and  bursts  the  fragile  sail, 
When  stars  have  faded,  when  the  wave  is  dark, 
When  rocks  and  sands  embrace  the  foundering  bark, 
And  still  he  pleads  with  unavailing  cry, 
Behold  the  light,  O  wanderer,  look  or  die ! 

A  health,  fair  Themis  !     Would  the  enchanted  vine 
Wreathed  its  green  tendrils  round  this  cup  of  thine ; 
If  Learning's  radiance  fill  thy  modern  court, 
Its  glorious  sunshine  streams  through  Blackstone's 

port! 

Lawyers  are  thirsty,  and  their  clients  too, 
Witness  at  least,  if  memory  serve  me  true, 
Those  old  tribunals,  famed  for  dusty  suits, 
Where  men  sought  justice  ere  they  brushed  their 

boots ;  — 

And  what  can  match,  to  solve  a  learned  doubt, 
The  warmth  within  that  comes  from  "  cold  without "  ? 

Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The  crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to  live. 
Ask  not  her  home ;  —  the  rock  where  nature  flings 
Her  arctic  lichen,  last  of  living  things, 
The  gardens,  fragrant  with  the  orient's  balm, ' 
From  the  low  jasmine  to  the  star-like  palm, 
Hail  her  as  mistress  o'er  the  distant  waves, 
And  yield  their  tribute  to  her  wandering  slaves. 
Wherever,  moistening  the  ungrateful  soil, 
The  tear  of  suffering  tracks  the  path  of  toil, 
There,  in  the  anguish  of  his  fevered  hours, 
Her  gracious  finger  points  to  healing  flowers ; 


I74  NUX  POSTCCENATICA. 

Where  the  lost  felon  steals  away  to  die, 
Her  soft  hand  waves  before  his  closing  eye ; 
Where  hunted  misery  finds  his  darkest  lair, 
The  midnight  taper  shows  her  kneeling  there ! 
VIRTUE,  —  the  guide  that  men  and  nations  own  ; 
And  LAW,  —  the  bulwark  that  protects  her  throne ; 
And  HEALTH,  — to  all  its  happiest  charm  that  lends ; 
These  and  their  servants,  man's  untiring  friends ; 
Pour  the  bright  lymph  that  Heaven  itself  lets  fall,  — 
In  one  fair  bumper  let  us  toast  them  all ! 


NUX  POSTCCENATICA. 

WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon 

my  parlor  rug, 
With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very 

lively  bug ; 
The  true  bug  had  been  organized  with  only  two 

antennae, 

But  the  humbug  in  the  copperplate  would  have 
them  twice  as  many. 

And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the  emptiness 

of  art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole,  and  call 

the  whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard   a  heavy  footstep  that  was  loud 

enough  for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming,  —  "  How 

d'ye  do?" 


NUX  POSTC(ENATICA.  175 

He  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid  flesh 

and  bone ; 
He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was  twenty 

stone  j 
(It  's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims  as  riper 

years  invade, 
As  if  when  life  had  reached  its  noon,  it  wanted 

them  for  shade !) 

Host  my  focus, — dropped  my  book, — the  bug,  who 
was  a  flea, 

At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  experiments  on 
me. 

They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  frequently  ap 
palls,  — 

Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar  smalls ! 

"  My  boy,"  he  said,  —  (colloquial  ways,  —  the  vast, 

broad-hatted  man,)  — 
"  Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next,  —  you  must, 

you  know  you  can ; 
We  Jre  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with  lots  of 

fun  and  noise, 
Distinguished  guests,  et  cetera,  the  JUDGE,  and  all 

the  boys." 

Not  so,  —  I  said, —  my  temporal  bones  are  showing 

pretty  clear 
It's  time  to  stop, — just  look  and  see  that  hair 

above  this  ear ; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent,  —  and,  what 

is  very  strange, 
If  these  are  real  silver  hairs,  I  'm  getting  lots  of 

change. 


176  NUX  POSTCCEXATICA. 

Besides  —  my    prospects  —  don't  you  know   that 

people  won't  employ 
A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laughing  like 

a  boy1? 
And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a 

shoot, 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  nourish  at  its 

root? 

It 's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you  're  etching  out 
a  smile 

On  a  copper-plate  of  faces  that  would  stretch  at  least 
a  mile, 

That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies,  and  cheapen 
ing  shrugs  of  friends, 

It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a  month  of 
labor  lends  ! 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you  're  screw 
ing  out  a  laugh, 

That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  diminished 
by  a  half, 

And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus  may  go, 

And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your  Helicon 
may  flow  ! 

No ;  —  the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  —  but  I  'm 

getting  fond  of  quiet, 
And  I   don't  like  deviations  from  my  customary 

diet; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to  hear  the  toasts 

and  speeches, 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and  have  some 

pig  and  peaches. 


NUK  POSTCCENATICA.  i77 

The  fat  man  answered :  —  Shut  your  mouth,  and 

•     hear  the  genuine  creed; 
The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only  fan  and 

feed; 
The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round  delights  in 

spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day  was  great 

at  shaking  props. 

I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the  longest  heads 
That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretching  on 

their  beds 
Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I'd  beat  those 

fine  old  folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and  twenty  clever 

jokes  i 

Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the  company 

would  beg 
He  'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  balancing  the 

egg! 
Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and  Solomon  to 

Salmon, 
And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis  Bacon 

gammon ! 

And  as  for  all  the  "  patronage "  of  all  the  clowns 

and  boors 
That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  any  freak  of 

yours, 
Do   leave   them   to   your   prosier  friends,  —  such 

fellows  ought  to  die 
When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac  so 

high! 


i78  NUX  POSTCOENATICA. 

And  so  I  come,  —  like  Lochinvar,  to  tread  a  single 

measure, 
To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar-plum  of 

pleasure, 
To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that 's  run  for  after 

dinner, 
"Which  yields  a  single  sparkling  draught,  then  breaks 

and  cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that 's  the  way  delusion  comes,  —  a  glass  of 
old  Madeira, 

A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by  Jane  or 
Sarah, 

And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without  the  slight 
est  question 

If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the  organs  of 
digestion ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside  my  nurs 
ing  mother, 

Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and  every 
friend  a  brother, 

I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er  me 
stealing,  — 

The  warm,  champagny,  old-particular,  brandy- 
punchy  feeling. 

We  're  all  alike  ;  —  Vesuvius  flings  the  scoriae  from 

his  fountain, 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back  to  the 

burning  mountain ; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious 

Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear  old 

crater. 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL.       179 

ON   LENDING   A   PUNCH-BOWL. 

HIS  ancient   silver  bowl  of  mine,  —  it 

tells  of  good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and 

merry  Christmas  chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave, 

and  true, 

That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old 
bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar,  —  so  runs  the 

ancient  tale ; 
'Twas  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose 

arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his 

strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old 

Flemish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his 

loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for 

the  same ; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 
'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed 

smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan 

divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles 

and  schnaps. 


i So       ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next,  —  it 
left  the  Dutchman's  shore 

With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  —  a  hun 
dred  souls  and  more,  — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new 
abodes,  — 

To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hun 
dred  loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  clos 
ing  dim, 

When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled 
it  to  the  brim  ; 

The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with 
his  sword, 

And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about 
the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in,  —  the  man  that 

never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his 

yellow  beard ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers  —  the  men  that 

fought  and  prayed — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a 

man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming 

eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's 

wild  halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught 

to  kith  and  kin, 
"  Bun  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells 

of  Hollands  gin ! " 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL.      181 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their 

leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little 

cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in 

mirth  or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her 

parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good,  —  poor 
child,  you  '11  never  bear 

This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  mid 
night  air ; 

And  if —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt,  't  would 
keep  away  the  chill ; 

So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought  that 
night  at  Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old 

English  cheer ; 
I  tell  you,  'twas  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its 

symbol  here. 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  ;  — hast  thou  a 

drunken  soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver 

bowl! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past,  —  its  pressed  yet 

fragrant  flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  —  the  ivy 

on  its  towers  ;  — 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,  —  my  eyes 

grow  moist  and  dim, 
To   think   of  all  the  vanished  joys    that   danced 

around  its  brim. 


1 82          THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight 

to  me ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whatever  the  liquid 

be; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from 

the  sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words,  —  "My 

dear,  where  have  you  been  ? " 


THE   STETHOSCOPE   SONG. 

A    PROFESSIONAL   BALLAD. 

HERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  STETHOSCOPE  nice 

and  new, 
All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished 

down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 

And  spun  a  web  of  ample  size, 
Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 

A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 

The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and  long ; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 

Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill ; 
And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 

A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG.          183 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing  all  the  while 

He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause ; 

Said  he,  —  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 

To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well ; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear ; 

Mon  Dieu  !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 

Why  here  is  a  sound  that 's  mighty  queer ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 

Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 
Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear ; 

Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There 's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt ; 

We  11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side.  — 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, 

They  tapped  the  patient ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  look  extremely  glum ; 
They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a  hum. 


1 84          THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 

And  what  was  the  matter  none  did  know : 

Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was  quick; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row ; 

She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was  at, 
To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 

The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz ;  — 

O  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt ; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 

And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 

If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find ! 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  squads  of  twenty ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 

Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 

And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "sighs"  and  "skies," 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered  rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and  coals. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG.          185 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 

The  rale  sifflant,  and  rale  sonore. 

He  shook  his  head ;  —  there 's  grave  disease,  — 
I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die ; 

A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 
Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 

Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men, 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise, 
That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 

Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young  man, 
By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


1 86  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM. 


EXTRACTS   FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM. 

THE  STABILITY  OF  SCIENCE. 

HE  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  in  the  storms, 
On  some  tall  lighthouse  dash  their  little 

forms, 
And  the  rude  granite  scatters  for  their 

pains 

Those  small  deposits  that  were  meant  for  brains. 
Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief  done ; 
Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze, 
Nay,  shines,  all  radiance,  o'er  the  scattered  fleet 
Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet. 

I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  disclaims 
To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of  their  doom,  ye  simple,  and  beware ! 

See  where  aloft  its  hoary  forehead  rears 
The  towering  pride  of  twice  a  thousand  years ! 
Far,  far  below  the  vast  incumbent  pile 
Sleeps  the  gray  rock  from  art's  JEgean  isle ; 
Its  massive  courses,  circling  as  they  rise, 
Swell  from  the  waves  to  mingle  with  the  skies ; 
There  every  quarry  lends  its  marble  spoil, 
And  clustering  ages  blend  their  common  toil ; 
The  Greek,  the  Roman,  reared  its  ancient  walls, 
The  silent  Arab  arched  its  mystic  halls ; 
In  that  fair  niche,  by  countless  billows  laved, 
Trace  the  deep  lines  that  Sydenham  engraved ; 
On  yon  broad  front  that  breasts  the  changing  swell, 
Mark  where  the  ponderous  sledge  of  Hunter  fell ; 


FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM.  187 

By  that  square  buttress  look  where  Louis  stands, 
The  stone  yet  warm  from  his  uplifted  hands ; 
And  say,  O  Science,  shall  thy  life-blood  freeze, 
When  fluttering  folly  flaps  on  walls  like  these  ? 


A  PORTRAIT. 

SIMPLE  in  youth,  but  not  austere  in  age ; 
Calm,  but  not  cold,  and  cheerful  though  a  sage ; 
Too  true  to  flatter,  and  too  kind  to  sneer, 
And  only  just  when  seemingly  severe ; 
So  gently  blending  courtesy  and  art, 
That  wisdom's  lips  seemed  borrowing  friendship's 

heart. 

Taught  by  the  sorrows  that  his  age  had  known 
In  others'  trials  to  forget  his  own, 
As  hour  by  hour  his  lengthened  day  declined, 
The  sweeter  radiance  lingered  o'er  his  mind. 
Cold  were  the  lips  that  spoke  his  early  praise, 
And  hushed  the  voices  of  his  morning  days, 
Yet  the  same  accents  dwelt  on  every  tongue, 
And  love  renewing  kept  him  ever  young. 

A   SENTIMENT. 

'  O  /3/o*  &£&%»$,  —  life  is  but  a  song ; 

'  H  r'i%vt)  ftaxtf,  —  art  is  wondrous  long ; 

Yet  to  the  wise  her  paths  are  ever  fair, 

And  Patience  smiles,  though  Genius  may  despair. 

Give  us  but  knowledge,  though  by  slow  degrees, 

And  blend  our  toil  with  moments  bright  as  these ; 

Let  Friendship's  accents  cheer  our  doubtful  way, 

And  Love's  pure  planet  lend  its  guiding  ray,  — 

Our  tardy  Art  shall  wear  an  angel's  wings, 

And  life  shall  lengthen  with  the  joy  it  brings ! 


i88          A   SONG   OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

A   SONG   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

S  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 

Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So,  through  life's  desert  springing  sweety 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows ; 
And  as,  where'er  the  roses  grow, 
Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
'T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 

They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat ; 

But  gray-haired  sages  think 
It  means,  — Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink ; 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  flow 

That  know  not  wine  or  song ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down  ! 
A  fig  for  Caesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 


A  SONG   OF  OTHER  DAYS.  189 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Koman's  urn, 

Are  silent  when  we  call, 
Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 

To  cluster  on  the  wall ; 
It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

They  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  bravest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

Methinks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 

Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 
And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 

From  dead  Anacreon's  strings ; 
And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 

Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 
With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 

Return  the  nymphs  of  old. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 
From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 
To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 

Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers ; 
'T  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 

In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 
And  Nature,  from  her  vine-clad  hills, 
That  rains  her  life-blood  down ! 
Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring  ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


j 90  A  SENTIMENT. 

A   SENTIMENT. 

pledge   of  Friendship !    it  is   still 

divine, 
Though  watery  floods  have  quenched 

its  burning  wine ; 
Whatever  vase  the  sacred  drops  may  hold, 
The  gourd,  the  shell,  the  cup  of  beaten  gold, 
Around  its  brim  the  hand  of  Nature  throws 
A  garland  sweeter  than  the  banquet's  rose. 
Bright  are  the  blushes  of  the  vine-wreathed  bowl, 
Warm  with  the  sunshine  of  Anacreon's  soul, 
But  dearer  memories  gild  the  tasteless  wave 
That  fainting  Sidney  perished  as  he  gave. 
'T  is  the  heart's  current  lends  the  cup  its  glow, 
Whatever  the  fountain  whence  the  draught  may 

flow, — 

The  diamond  dew-drops  sparkling  through  the  sand, 
Scooped  by  the  Arab  in  his  sunburnt  hand, 
Or  the  dark  streamlet  oozing  from  the  snow, 
Where  creep  and  crouch  the  shuddering   Esqui 
maux  ;  -— 

Ay,  in  the  stream  that,  ere  again  we  meet, 
Shall  burst  the  pavement,  glistening  at  our  feet, 
And,  stealing  silent  from  its  leafy  hills, 
Thread  all  our  alleys  with  its  thousand  rills,  — 
In  each  pale  draught  if  generous  feeling  blend, 
And  o'er  the  goblet  friend  shall  smile  on  friend, 
Even  cold  Cochituate  every  heart  shall  warm, 
And  genial  Nature  still  defy  reform  ! 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


TO 

THE    MOST    INDULGENT    OF    READERS, 
THE    KINDEST    OF    CRITICS, 

MY  BELOVED  MOTHEE, 

LLL  THAT  IS  LEAST  UNWORTHY  OP  HER  IN  THIS  VOLUME 

IS    DEDICATED 
BT   HER   AFFECTIONATE    SON. 


HE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 
Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets 

bray  ; 

Song  is  thin  air ;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 
Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching  deeds, 
Following  the  mighty  van  that  Freedom  leads, 
Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day ! 
The  crimsoned  pavement  where  a  hero  bleeds 
Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 
Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts,  arc  better 

worth 

Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes  dumb. 
Hark  !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 
Rolls  o'er  the  prairied  West,  the  rock-bound  North  : 
The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 
Its  shadowy  palms.    Behold,  we  come, — we  come ! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.     Such  toys  as  these 
Were  not  unsought  for,  as,  in  languid  dreams, 
We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 
And  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 


196 

It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 
Dropping  untimely,  while  the  sudden  gleams 
Glare  from  the  mustering  clouds  whose  blackness 

seems 

Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the  trees. 
Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 
These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and  go  — 
Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  so  slow — 
Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome  past 
May  flutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets,  cast 
On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 

MAY  i,  1861. 


AGNES.14 


PART    FIRST. 

THE  KNIGHT. 

HE  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true, 

As  all  the  bookmen  know, 
And  pilgrims  who  have  strayed  to  view 
The  wrecks  still  left  to  show. 


The  old,  old  story,  —  fair,  and  young, 
And  fond,  — and  not  too  wise,  — 

That  matrons  tell,  with  sharpened  tongue, 
To  maids  with  downcast  eyes. 

Ah !  maidens  err  and  matrons  warn 

Beneath  the  coldest  sky ; 
Love  lurks  amid  the  tasselled  corn 

As  in  the  bearded  rye ! 

But  who  would  dream  our  sober  sires 
Had  learned  the  old  world's  ways, 

And  warmed  their  hearths  with  lawless  fires 
In  Shirley's  homespun  days  ? 


198  AGNES. 

'T  is  like  some  poet's  pictured  trance 

His  idle  rhymes  recite, — 
This  old  New-England-born  romance 

Of  Agnes  and  the  Knight ; 

Yet,  known  to  all  the  country  round, 
Their  home  is  standing  still, 

Between  Wachusett's  lonely  mound 
And  Shawmut's  threefold  hill. 

—  One  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 
One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 

We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 
With  stained  and  warping  floor, 

A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof 
And  bars  its  haughty  door. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 
That  breaks  the  gable  wall ; 

And  lo  !  with  arches  opening  wide, 
Sir  Harry  Frankland's  hall ! 

'T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 
They  sought  the  forest  shade, 

The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 
The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble-pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 


AGNES.  199 

Far  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 

The  Master's  broad  domain ; 
With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  ho,und, 

He  kept  a  goodly  train. 

And,  all  the  midland  county  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Eepaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  fight. 

Nor  less  to  courtly  circles  known 
That  graced  the  three-hilled  town 

With  far-off  splendors  of  the  Throne, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  Crown ; 

Wise  Phipps,  who  held  the  seals  of  state 

For  Shirley  over  sea ; 
Brave  Knowles,  whose  press-gang  moved  of  late 

The  King  Street  mob's  decree ; 

And  judges  grave,  and  colonels  grand, 

Fair  dames  and  stately  men, 
The  mighty  people  of  the  land, 

The  "  World  "  of  there  and  then. 

'T  was  strange  no  Chloe's  "beauteous  Form/' 

And  "  Eyes'  ccelestial  Blew," 
This  Strephon  of  the  West  could  warm, 

No  Nymph  his  Heart  subdue ! 


aoo  AGNES. 

Perchance  he  wooed  as  gallants  use, 
Whom  fleeting  loves  enchain, 

But  s^ill  unfettered,  free  to  choose, 
Would  brook  no  bridle-rein. 

He  saw  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

But  smiled  alike  on  all ; 
No  band  his  roving  foot  might  snare, 

No  ring  his  hand  enthrall. 


PAET    SECOND. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

HY  seeks  the  knight  that  rocky  cape 

Beyond  the  Bay  of  Lynn  ? 
What  chance  his  wayward  course  may 

shape 
To  reach  its  village  inn  ? 

No  story  tells ;  whatever  we  guess, 

The  past  lies  deaf  and  still, 
But  Fate,  who  rules  to  blight  or  bless, 

Can  lead  us  where  she  will. 

Make  way !    Sir  Harry's  coach  and  four, 

And  liveried  grooms  that  ride ! 
They  cross  the  ferry,  touch  the  shore 

On  Winnisimmet's  side. 

They  hear  the  wash  on  Chelsea  Beach,  — 

The  level  marsh  they  pass, 
Where  miles  on  miles  the  desert  reach 

Is  rough  with  bitter  grass. 


AGNES.  ao-i 

The  shining  horses  foam  and  pant, 

And  now  the  smells  begin 
Of  fishy  Swampscot,  salt  Nahant,  4 

And  leather-scented  Lynn. 

Next,  on  their  left,  the  slender  spires, 
And  glittering  vanes,  that  crown 

The  home  of  Salem's  frugal  sires, 
The  old,  witch-haunted  town. 

So  onward,  o'er  the  rugged  way 
That  runs  through  rocks  and  sand, 

Showered  by  the  tempest-driven  spray, 
From  bays  on  either  hand, 

That  shut  between  their  outstretched  arms 

The  crews  of  Marblehead, 
The  lords  of  ocean's  watery  farms, 

Who  plough  the  waves  for  bread. 

At  last  the  ancient  inn  appears, 

The  spreading  elm  below, 
Whose  napping  sign  these  fifty  years 

Has  seesawed  to  and  fro. 

How  fair  the  azure  fields  in  sight 

Before  the  low-browed  inn  ! 
The  tumbling  billows  fringe  with  light 

The  crescent  shore  of  Lynn ; 

Nahant  thrusts  outward  through  the  waves 

Her  arm  of  yellow  sand, 
And  breaks  the  roaring  surge  that  braves 

The  gauntlet  on  her  hand ; 


202  AGNES. 

With  eddying  whirl  the  waters  lock 

Yon  treeless  mound  forlorn, 
The  sharp-winged  sea-fowl's  breeding-rock, 

That  fronts  the  Spouting  Horn ; 

Then  free  the  white-sailed  shallops  glide, 

And  wide  the  ocean  smiles, 
Till,  shoreward  bent,  his  streams  divide 

The  two  bare  Misery  Isles. 

The  master's  silent  signal  stays 

The  wearied  cavalcade ; 
The  coachman  reins  his  smoking  bays 

Beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 

A  gathering  on  the  village  green  ! 

The  cocked-hats  crowd  to  see, 
On  legs  in  ancient  velveteen, 

With  buckles  at  the  knee. 

A  clustering  round  the  tavern-door 
Of  square-toed  village  boys, 

Still  wearing,  as  their  grandsires  wore, 
The  old-world  corduroys ! 

A  scampering  at  the  "  Fountain  "  inn,  — 
A  rush  of  great  and  small,  — 

With  hurrying  servants'  mingled  din 
And  screaming  matron's  call ! 

Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done 

They  caught  her  unaware ; 
As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair ; 


AGNES.  203 

Bent  o'er  the  steps,  with  lowliest  mien 

She  knelt,  but  not  to  pray,  — 
Her  little  hands  must  keep  them  clean, 

And  wash  their  stains  away. 

A  foot,  an  ankle,  bare  and  white, 

Her  girlish  shapes  betrayed,  — 
"  Ha !  Nymphs  and  Graces ! "  spoke  the  Knight; 

"  Look  up,  my  beauteous  Maid !  " 

She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud, 

Its  calyx  half  withdrawn,  — 
Her  cheek  on  fire  with  damasked  blood 

Of  girlhood's  glowing  dawn ! 

He  searched  her  features  through  and  through, 

As  royal  lovers  look 
On  lowly  maidens,  when  they  woo 

Without  the  ring  and  book. 

"  Come  hither,  Fair  one  !  Here,  my  Sweet ! 

Nay,  prithee,  look  not  down ! 
Take  this  to  shoe  those  little  feet,"  — 

He  tossed  a  silver  crown. 

A  sudden  paleness  struck  her  brow,  — 

A  swifter  flush  succeeds ; 
It  burns  her  cheek ;  it  kindles  now 

Beneath  her  golden  beads. 

She  flitted,  but  the  glittering  eye 

Still  sought  the  lovely  face. 
Who  was  she  ?    What,  and  whence  ?  and  why 

Doomed  to  such  menial  place  ? 


204  AGNES. 

A  skipper's  daughter,  —  so  they  said,  — 

Left  orphan  by  the  gale 
That  cost  the  fleet  of  Marblehead 

And  Gloucester  thirty  sail. 

Ah !  many  a  lonely  home  is  found 

Along  the  Essex  shore, 
That  cheered  its  goodman  outward  bound, 

And  sees  his  face  no  more  ! 

"  Not  so,"  the  matron  whispered,  —  "  sure 

No  orphan  girl  is  she,  — 
The  Surraige  folk  are  deadly  poor 

Since  Edward  left  the  sea, 

"  And  Mary,  with  her  growing  brood, 

Has  work  enough  to  do 
To  find  the  children  clothes  and  food 

With  Thomas,  John,  and  Hugh. 

"  This  girl  of  Mary's,  growing  tall,  — 
(Just  turned  her  sixteenth  year,)  — 

To  earn  her  bread  and  help  them  all, 
Would  work  as  housemaid  here." 

So  Agnes,  with  her  golden  beads, 

And  naught  beside  as  dower, 
Grew  at  the  wayside  with  the  weeds, 

Herself  a  garden-flower. 

'T  was  strange,  't  was  sad,  —  so  fresh,  so  fair ! 

Thus  Pity's  voice  began. 
Such  grace !  an  angel's  shape  and  air ! 

The  half-heard  whisper  ran. 


AGNES.  205 

For  eyes  could  see  in  George's  time, 

As  now  in  later  days, 
And  lips  could  shape,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

The  honeyed  breath  of  praise. 

No  time  to  woo !     The  train  must  go 

Long  ere  the  sun  is  down, 
To  reach,  before  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  many-steepled  town. 

'T  is  midnight,  —  street  and  square  are  still ; 

Dark  roll  the  whispering  waves 
That  lap  the  piers  beneath  the  hill 

Kidged  thick  with  ancient  graves. 

Ah,  gentle  sleep  !  thy  hand  will  smooth 

The  weary  couch  of  pain, 
When  all  thy  poppies  fail  to  soothe 

The  lover's  throbbing  brain ! 

*T  is  morn,  —  the  orange-mantled  sun 
Breaks  through  the  fading  gray, 

And  long  and  loud  the  Castle  gun 
Peals  o'er  the  glistening  bay. 

"  Thank  God  't  is  day ! "     With  eager  eye 
He  hails  the  morning's  shine  :  — 

"  If  art  can  win,  or  gold  can  buy, 
The  maiden  shall  be  mine ! " 


ao6  AGNES. 

PAET    THIRD. 
THE  CONQUEST. 

HO  saw  this  hussy  when  she  came  ? 
What  is  the  wench,  and  who  ?  " 
They  whisper.    "  Agnes,  —  is  her  name  ? 
Pray  what  has  she  to  do  ?  " 

The  housemaids  parley  at  the  gate, 

The  scullions  on  the  stair, 
And  in  the  footmen's  grave  debate 

The  butler  deigns  to  share. 

Black  Dinah,  stolen  when  a  child, 

And  sold  on  Boston  pier, 
Grown  up  in  service,  petted,  spoiled, 

Speaks  in  the  coachman's  ear : 

"  What,  all  this  household  at  his  will  ? 

And  all  are  yet  too  few  1 
More  servants,  and  more  servants  still,  — 

This  pert  young  madam  too  !  " 

"  Servant !  fine  servant !  "  laughed  aloud 

The  man  of  coach  and  steeds ; 
"  She  looks  too  fair,  she  steps  too  proud, 

This  girl  with  golden  beads  ! 

"  I  tell  you,  you  may  fret  and  frown, 

And  call  her  what  you  choose, 
You  '11  find  my  Lady  in  her  gown, 

Your  Mistress  in  her  shoes  !  " 


AGNES.  ao; 

Ah,  gentle  maidens,  free  from  blame, 

God  grant  you  never  know 
The  little  whisper,  loud  with  shame, 

That  makes  the  world  your  foe  ! 

Why  tell  the  lordly  flatterer's  art, 

That  won  the  maiden's  ear,  — 
The  fluttering  of  the  frightened  heart, 

The  blush,  the  smile,  the  tear  ? 

Alas  !  it  were  the  saddening  tale 

That  every  language  knows,  — 
The  wooing  wind,  the  yielding  sail, 

The  sunbeam  and  the  rose. 

And  now  the  gown  of  sober  stuff 

Has  changed  to  fair  brocade, 
With  broidered  hem,  and  hanging  cuff, 

And  flower  of  silken  braid  ; 

And  clasped  around  her  blanching  wrist 

A  jewelled  bracelet  shines, 
Her  flowing  tresses'  massive  twist 

A  glittering  net  confines ; 

And  mingling  with  their  truant  wave 

A  fretted  chain  is  hung ; 
But  ah !  the  gift  her  mother  gave,  — 

Its  beads  are  all  unstrung! 

Her  place  is  at  the  master's  board, 

Where  none  disputes  her  claim ; 
She  walks  beside  the  mansion's  lord, 

His  bride  in  all  but  name. 


ao8  AGNES. 

The  busy  tongues  have  ceased  to  talk, 
Or  speak  in  softened  tone, 

So  gracious  in  her  daily  walk 
The  angel  light  has  shown. 

No  want  that  kindness  may  relieve 
Assails  her  heart  in  vain, 

The  lifting  of  a  ragged  sleeve 
Will  check  her  palfrey's  rein. 

A  thoughtful  calm,  a  quiet  grace 
In  every  movement  shown, 

Reveal  her  moulded  for  the  place 
She  may  not  call  her  own. 

And,  save  that  on  her  youthful  brow 
There  broods  a  shadowy  care, 

No  matron  sealed  with  holy  vow 
In  all  the  land  so  fair  ! 


PAET    FOURTH. 

THE  RESCUE. 

SHIP  comes  foaming  up  the  bay, 
Along  the  pier  she  glides  ; 

Before  her  furrow  melts  away, 
A  courier  mounts  and  rides. 

"Haste,  Haste,  post  Haste !"  the  letters  bear; 

"  Sir  Harry  Frankland,  These." 
Sad  news  to  tell  the  loving  pair ! 

The  knight  must  cross  the  seas. 


AGNES.  209 

"  Alas  !  we  part !  "  —  the  lips  that  spoke 

Lost  all  their  rosy  red, 
As  when  a  crystal  cup  is  broke, 

And  all  its  wine  is  shed. 

"  Nay,  droop  not  thus,  —  where'er,"  he  cried, 

"  I  go  by  land  or  sea, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  pride, 

Thy  place  is  still  by  me  !  " 

Through  town  and  city,  far  and  wide, 
Their  wandering  feet  have  strayed, 

Prom  Alpine  lake  to  ocean  tide, 
And  cold  Sierra's  shade. 

At  length  they  see  the  waters  gleam 

Amid  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  Lisbon  mirrors  in  the  stream 

Her  belt  of  ancient  towers. 

Bed  is  the  orange  on  its  bough, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  fling 
O'er  Cintra's  hazel-shaded  brow 

The  flush  of  April's  wing. 

The  streets  are  loud  with  noisy  mirtii, 

They  dance  on  every  green ; 
The  morning's  dial  marks  the  birth 

Of  proud  Braganza's  queen. 

At  eve  beneath  their  pictured  dome 

The  gilded  courtiers  throng; 
The  broad  moidores  have  cheated  Borne 

Of  all  her  lords  of  song. 
14 


2io  AGNES. 

Ah !  Lisbon  dreams  not  of  the  day  — 
Pleased  with  her  painted  scenes  — 

When  all  her  towers  shall  slide  away 
As  now  these  canvas  screens  ! 

The  spring  has  passed,  the  summer  fled, 

And  yet  they  linger  still, 
Though  autumn's  rustling  leaves  have  spread 

The  flank  of  Cintra's  hill. 

The  town  has  learned  their  Saxon  name, 
And  touched  their  English  gold, 

Nor  tale  of  doubt  nor  hint  of  blame 
From  over  sea  is  told. 

Three  hours  the  first  November  dawn 

Has  climbed  with  feeble  ray 
Through  mists  like  heavy  curtains  drawn 

Before  the  darkened  day. 

How  still  the  muffled  echoes  sleep ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  hollow  sound,  — 
A  noise  like  chariots  rumbling  deep 

Beneath  the  solid  ground. 

The  channel  lifts,  the  water  slides 

And  bares  its  bar  of  sand, 
Anon  a  mountain  billow  strides; 

And  crashes  o'er  the  land. 

The  turrets  lean,  the  steeples  reel 

Like  masts  on  ocean's  swell, 
And  clash  a  long  discordant  peal, 

The  death-doomed  city's  knelL 


AGNES.  211 

The  pavement  bursts,  the  earth  upheaves 

Beneath  the  staggering  town ! 
The  turrets  crack  —  the  castle  cleaves  — 

The  spires  come  rushing  down. 

Around,  the  lurid  mountains  glow 
With  strange  unearthly  gleams  ; 

While  black  abysses  gape  below, 
Then  close  in  jagged  seams. 

The  earth  has  folded  like  a  wave, 

And  thrice  a  thousand  score, 
Clasped,  shroudless,  in  their  closing  grave, 

The  sun  shall  see  no  more  ! 

And  all  is  over.     Street  and  square 

In  ruined  heaps  are  piled ; 
Ah !  where  is  she,  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Amid  the  tumult  wild  ? 

Unscathed,  she  treads  the  wreck-piled  street, 

Whose  narrow  gaps  afford 
A  pathway  for  her  bleeding  feet, 

To  seek  her  absent  lord. 

A  temple's  broken  walls  arrest 

Her  wild  and  wandering  eyes ; 
Beneath  its  shattered  portal  pressed, 

Her  lord  unconscious  lies. 

The  power  that  living  hearts  obey 

Shall  lifeless  blocks  withstand  ? 
Love  led  her  footsteps  where  he  lay,  — 

Love  nerves  her  woman's  hand : 


AGNES. 

One  cry,  —  the  marble  shaft  she  grasps,  — 
Up  heaves  the  ponderous  stone  :  — 

He  breathes,  —  her  fainting  form  he  clasps,  — 
Her  life  has  bought  his  own ! 


PAET    FIFTH. 
THE   REWARD. 

OW  like  the  starless  night  of  death 

Our  being's  brief  eclipse, 
When  faltering  heart  and  failing  breath 

Have  bleached  the  fading  lips ! 


She  lives  !     What  guerdon  shall  repay 

His  debt  of  ransomed  life  ? 
One  word  can  charm  all  wrongs  away,  — 

The  sacred  name  of  WIFE  ! 

The  love  that  won  her  girlish  charms 
Must  shield  her  matron  fame, 

And  write  beneath  the  Frankland  arms 
The  village  beauty's  name. 

Go,  call  the  priest !  no  vain  delay 

Shall  dim  the  sacred  ring  ! 
Who  knows  what  change  the  passing  day, 

The  fleeting  hour,  may  bring  ? 

Before  the  holy  altar  bent, 

There  kneels  a  goodly  pair ; 
A  stately  man,  of  high  descent, 

A  woman,  passing  fair- 


AGNES.  213 

No  jewels  lend  the  blinding  sheen 

That  meaner  beauty  needs, 
But  on  her  bosom  heaves  unseen 

A  string  of  golden  beads. 

The  vow  is  spoke,  —  the  prayer  is  said,  — 

And  with  a  gentle  pride 
The  Lady  Agnes  lifts  her  head, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  bride. 

No  more  her  faithful  heart  shall  bear 
Those  griefs  so  meekly  borne,  — 

The  passing  sneer,  the  freezing  stare, 
The  icy  look  of  scorn  ; 

No  more  the  blue-eyed  English  dames 

Their  haughty  lips  shall  curl, 
Whene'er  a  hissing  whisper  names 

The  poor  New-England  girl. 

But  stay !  —  his  mother's  haughty  brow,  — 

The  pride  of  ancient  race,  — 
Will  plighted  faith,  and  holy  vow, 

Win  back  her  fond  embrace  1 

Too  well  she  knew  the  saddening  tale 

Of  love  no  vow  had  blest, 
That  turned  his  blushing  honors  pale 

And  stained  his  knightly  crest. 

They  seek  his  Northern  home,  —  alas : 

He  goes  alone  before ;  — 
His  own  dear  Agnes  may  not  pass 

The  proud,  ancestral  door. 


AGNES. 

He  stood  before  the  stately  dame ; 

He  spoke ;  she  calmly  heard, 
But  not  to  pity,  nor  to  blame  ; 

She  breathed  no  single  word. 

He  told  his  love,  —  her  faith  betrayed ; 

She  heard  with  tearless  eyes  ; 
Could  she  forgive  the  erring  maid  ? 

She  stared  in  cold  surprise. 

How  fond  her  heart,  he  told,  —  how  true ; 

The  haughty  eyelids  fell ;  — 
The  kindly  deeds  she  loved  to  do ; 

She  murmured,  "  It  is  well." 

But  when  he  told  that  fearful  day, 

And  how  her  feet  were  led 
To  where  entombed  in  life  he  lay, 

The  breathing  with  the  dead, 

And  how  she  bruised  her  tender  breasts 

Against  the  crushing  stone, 
That  still  the  strong-armed  clown  protests 

No  man  can  lift  alone,  — 

0  then  the  frozen  spring  was  broke  ; 
By  turns  she  wept  and  smiled ;  — 

"  Sweet  Agnes  !  "  so  the  mother  spoke, 
"  God  bless  my  angel  child  ! 

«  She  saved  thee  from  the  jaws  of  death,  - 
'T  is  thine  to  right  her  wrongs ; 

1  tell  thee,  —  I,  who  gave  thee  breath,  — 

To  her  thy  life  belongs  !  " 


AGNES.  215 


Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 
Her  lawless  lover's  hand ; 

The  lowly  maiden  so  became 
A  lady  in  the  land  ! 


PART    SIXTH. 

CONCLUSION. 

HE  tale  is  done ;  it  little  needs 

To  track  their  after  ways, 
And  string  again  the  golden  beads 
Of  love's  uncounted  days. 


They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
For  bleak  New  England's  shore ; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before  ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 

They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 
And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 

Shake  in  the  trembling  stream. 

Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair ; 

His  cheek,  alas !  grows  pale ; 
The  breast  that  trampling  death  could  spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail, 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 

For  England's  clouded  sky,  — 
To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew ; 

He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 


2i  6  AGNES. 

—  Hard  by  the  terraced  hill-side  town, 
Where  healing  streamlets  run, 

Still  sparkling  with  their  old  renown,  — 
The  "Waters  of  the  Sun/'  — 

The  Lady  Agnes  raised  the  stone 
That  marks  his  honored  grave, 

And  there  Sir  Harry  sleeps  alone 
By  Wiltshire  Avon's  wave. 

The  home  of  early  love  was  dear ; 

She  sought  its  peaceful  shade, 
And  kept  her  state  for  many  a  year, 

With  none  to  make  afraid. 

At  last  the  evil  days  were  come 
That  saw  the  red  cross  fall ; 

She  hears  the  rebels'  rattling  drum,— 
Farewell  to  Frankland  Hall ! 

—  I  tell  you,  as  my  tale  began, 
The  Hall  is  standing  still ; 

And  you,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 
May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 

Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 
Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 

And  one  lies  stretched  below. 

The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridge-pole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 


AGNES.  217 

The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 

With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 
The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 

Scarce  can  the  night-winds  jar. 

Behold  the  chosen  room  he  sought 

Alone,  to  fast  and  pray, 
Each  year,  as  chill  November  brought 

The  dismal  earthquake  day. 

There  hung  the  rapier  blade  he  wore, 

Bent  in  its  flattened  sheath ; 
The  coat  the  shrieking  woman  tore 

Caught  in  her  clenching  teeth  ;  — 

The  coat  with  tarnished  silver  lace 

She  snapped  at  as  she  slid, 
And  down  upon  her  death-white  face 

Crashed  the  huge  coffin's  lid. 

A  graded  terrace  yet  remains ; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 

A  dim,  receding  view, 
Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line, 

He  cut  his  vista  through. 

If  further  story  you  shall  crave, 

Or  ask  for  living  proof, 
Go  see  old  Julia,  born  a  slave 

Beneath  Sir  Harry's  roof. 


ai8  AGNES. 

She  told  me  half  that  I  have  told, 

And  she  remembers  well 
The  mansion  as  it  looked  of  old 

Before  its  glories  fell ;  — 

The  box,  when  round  the  terraced  square 

Its  glossy  wall  was  drawn ; 
The  climbing  vines,  the  snow-balls  fair, 

The  roses  on  the  lawn. 

And  Julia  says,  with  truthful  look 
Stamped  on  her  wrinkled  face, 

That  in  her  own  black  hands  she  took 
The  coat  with  silver  lace. 

And  you  may  hold  the  story  light, 

Or,  if  you  like,  believe ; 
But  there  it  was,  the  woman's  bite,  — 

A  mouthful  from  the  sleeve. 

Now  go  your  ways ;  —  I  need  not  tell 

The  moral  of  my  rhyme; 
But,  youths  and  maidens,  ponder  well 

This  tale  of  olden  time ! 


THE  PLOUGHMAN.  219 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    BERKSHIRE    AGRICULTU 
RAL    SOCIETY,    OCT.    4,    1849. 

LEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coul 
ter's  gleam ! 
Lo !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking 

team, 

With  toil's  bright  clew-drops  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun, 
Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 
Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod ; 
Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 
The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves ; 
Up  the  steep  hill-side,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain, 
Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay, 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round, 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings : 


220  THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green ; 
This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men ; 
These  are  the  lines  that  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time ! 
"We  stain  thy  flowers,  —  they  blossom  o'er  the  dead ; 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn ; 
Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 
Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength  away. 

No  !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  displayed 
In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed : 
By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 
And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines ;  — 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 
If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 
These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 


A  POEM.  221 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run ; 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won  1 


A  POEM. 

DEDICATION    OF    THE    PITTSFIELD    CEMETERY, 
SEPTEMBER    9,     1850. 

NGEL  of  Death !  extend  thy  silent  reign ! 

Stretch  thy  dark  sceptre  o'er  this  new 
domain ! 

No  sable  car  along  the  winding  road 
Has  borne  to  earth  its  unresisting  load; 
No  sudden  mound  has  risen  yet  to  show 
"Where  the  pale  slumberer  folds  his  arms  below ; 
No  marble  gleams  to  bid  his  memory  live 
In  the  brief  lines  that  hurrying  Time  can  give ; 
Yet,  0  Destroyer !  from  thy  shrouded  throne 
Look  on  our  gift ;  this  realm  is  all  thine  own ! 

Fair  is  the  scene ;  its  sweetness  oft  beguiled 
From  their  dim  paths  the  children  of  the  wild ; 
The  dark-haired  maiden  loved  its  grassy  dells, 
The  feathered  warrior  claimed  its  wooded  swells, 
Still  on  its  slopes  the  ploughman's  ridges  show 
The  pointed  flints  that  left  his  fatal  bow, 
Chipped  with  rough  art  and  slow  barbarian  toil,  — - 
Last  of  his  wrecks  that  strews  the  alien  soil ! 


222  A     POEM. 

Here  spread  the  fields  that  heaped  their  ripened 

store 

Till  the  brown  arms  of  Labor  held  no  more  ; 
The  scythe's  broad  meadow  with  its  dusky  blush ; 
The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush ; 
The  green-haired  maize,  her  silken  tresses  laid, 
In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade ; 
The  gourd  that  swells  beneath  her  tossing  plume ; 
The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in  lakes  of  bloom,  — 
Its  coral  stems  and  milk-white  flowers  alive 
"With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered  hive ; 
Here  glowed  the  apple  with  the  pencilled  streak 
Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern  cheek  ; 
The  pear's  long  necklace  strung  with  golden  drops, 
Arched,  like  the  banian,  o'er  its  pillared  props ; 
Here  crept  the  growths  that  paid  the  laborer's  care 
With  the  cheap  luxuries  wealth  consents  to  spare ; 
Here  sprang  the  healing  herbs  which  could  not  save 
The  hand  that  reared  them  from  the  neighboring 

grave. 

Yet  all  its  varied  charms,  forever  free 

From  task  and  tribute,  Labor  yields  to  thee  : 

No  more,  when  April  sheds  her  fitful  rain, 

The  sower's  hand  shall  cast  its  flying  grain ; 

No  more,  when  Autumn  strews  the  flaming  leaves, 

The  reaper's  band  shall  gird  its  yellow  sheaves ; 

For  thee  alike  the  circling  seasons  flow 

Till  the  first  blossoms  heave  the  latest  snow. 

In  the  stiff  clod  below  the  whirling  drifts, 

In  the  loose  soil  the  springing  herbage  lifts, 

In  the  hot  dust  beneath  the  parching  weeds, 

Life's  withering  flower  shall  drop  its  shrivelled  seeds ; 

Its  germ  entranced  in  thy  unbreathing  sleep 

Till  what  thou  so  west  mightier  angels  reap  ! 


A   POEM.  223 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  let  thy  graces  blend 

With  loveliest  Nature  all  that  Art  can  lend. 

Come  from  the  bowers  where  Summer's  life-blood 

flows 

Through  the  red  lips  of  June's  half-open  rose, 
Dressed  in  bright  hues,  the  loving  sunshine's  dower; 
For  tranquil  Nature  owns  no  mourning  flower. 

Come  from  the  forest  where  the  beech's  screen 
Bars  the  fierce  noonbeam  with  its  flakes  of  green ; 
Stay  the  rude  axe  that  bares  the  shadowy  plains, 
Stanch  the   deep  wound   that   dries   the   maple's 
veins. 

Come  with  the  stream  whose  silver-braided  rills 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the  hills, 
Till  in  one  gleam,  beneath  the  forest's  wings, 
Melts  the  white  glitter  of  a  hundred  springs. 

Come  from  the  steeps  where  look  majestic  forth 
From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of  the  North 
On  the  huge  shapes,  that,  crouching  at  their  knees, 
Stretch  their  broad  shoulders,  rough  with  shaggy- 
trees. 

Through  the  wide  waste  of  ether,  not  in  vain, 
Their  softened  gaze  shall  reach  our  distant  plain ; 
There,  while  the  mourner  turns  his  aching  eyes 
On  the  blue  mounds  that  print  the  bluer  skies, 
Nature  shall  whisper  that  the  fading  view 
Of  mightiest  grief  may  wear  a  heavenly  hue. 

Cherub  of  Wisdom  !  let  thy  marble  page 
Leave  its  sad  lesson,  new  to  every  age ; 
Teach  us  to  live,  not  grudging  every  breath 
To  the  chill  winds  that  waft  us  on  to  death, 
But  ruling  calmly  every  pulse  it  warms, 
And  tempering  gently  every  word  it  forms. 


224  A  POEM. 

Seraph  of  Love !  in  heaven's  adoring  zone, 
Nearest  of  all  around  the  central  throne, 
While  with  soft  hands  the  pillowed  turf  we  spread 
That  soon  shall  hold  us  in  its  dreamless  bed, 
With  the  low  whisper,  —  Who  shall  first  be  laid 
In  the  dark  chamber's  yet  unbroken  shade  1  — 
Let  thy  sweet  radiance  shine  rekindled  here, 
And  all  we  cherish  grow  more  truly  dear. 
Here  in  the  gates  of  Death's  overhanging  vault, 
O,  teach  us  kindness  for  our  brother's  fault ; 
Lay  all  our  wrongs  beneatli  this  peaceful  sod, 
And  lead  our  hearts  to  Mercy  and  its  God. 

FATHER  of  all !  in  Death's  relentless  claim 
We  read  thy  mercy  by  its  sterner  name ; 
In  the  bright  flower  that  decks  the  solemn  bier, 
We  see  thy  glory  in  its  narrowed  sphere ; 
In  the  deep  lessons  that  affliction  draws, 
We  trace  the  curves  of  thy  encircling  laws ; 
In  the  long  sigh  that  sets  our  spirits  free, 
We  own  the  love  that  culls  us  back  to  Thee ! 

Through  the  hushed  street,  along  the  silent  plain, 
The  spectral  future  leads  its  mourning  train, 
Dark  with  the  shadows  of  uncounted  bands, 
Where  man's  white  lips  and  woman's  wringing  hands 
Track  the  still  burden,  rolling  slow  before, 
That  love  and  kindness  can  protect  no  more ; 
The  smiling  babe  that,  called  to  mortal  strife, 
Shuts  its  meek  eyes  and  drops  its  little  life ; 
The  drooping  child  who  prays  in  vain  to  live, 
And  pleads  for  help  its  parent  cannot  give ; 
The  pride  of  beauty  stricken  in  its  flower; 
The  strength  of  manhood  broken  in  an  hour ; 


PICTURES.  225 

Age  in  its  weakness,  bowed  by  toil  and  care, 
Traced  in  sad  lines  beneath  its  silvered  hair. 

The  sun  shall  set,  and  heaven's  resplendent  sphere* 
Gild  the  smooth  turf  unhallowed  yet  by  tears, 
But  ah  !  how  soon  the  evening  stars  will  shed 
Their  sleepless  light  around  the  slumbering  dead ! 

Take  them,  O  Father,  in  immortal  trust ! 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Till  the  last  angel  rolls  the  stone  away, 
And  a  new  morning  brings  eternal  day  ! 


PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

1850-  56. 
SPRING. 


INTER  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms ; 
Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than 

seen, 

The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 
Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves, 
Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 
White,  azure,  golden,  —  drift,  or  sky,  or  sun ;  — 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  Winter's  crest ; 
The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 
'5 


226  PICTURES  FROM 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 
Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky ; 
On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 
The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave, 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave, 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny  pane, 
Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain ; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls, 
In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent  crawls ; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 
Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened  leap ; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 
Or,  toiling  aimless  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 
"Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair, 
Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 
O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds, 
In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 
And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon  blaze, 
Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays, 
O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de-lis, 
Like  blue-eyed  Pallas,  towers  erect  and  free ; 
With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sunshine  glows, 
And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing  rose ; 
Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 
The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  227 

Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she  strips, 
Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy  glade, 
The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade  ; 
Then  flash  the  wings  returning  Summer  calls 
Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls  ;  — 
The  bluebird,  breathing  from  his  azure  plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms; 
The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down, 
Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown ; 
The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire 
Rent  by  a  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 
The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 
Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note ; 
The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate. 
Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight ; 
Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings, 
Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings. 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging  walls, 
Deaf  to  her  voice,  while  blooming  Nature  calls ; 
Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying  books  ? 
Off,  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled  past ! 
Fly  with  the  leaves  that  fill  the  autumn  blast ! 
Ye  imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless  chains 
Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living  veins, 
Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive  strays 
Dazzled  and  giddy  in  the  morning's  blaze  1 


PICTURES  FROM 


THE   STUDY. 

ET  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so  late, 
Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate,  — 
Sepulchral,  rayless,  joyless  as  it  seems, 
Shamed  by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent 

beams,  — 

While  the  dim  seasons  dragged  their  shrouded  train, 
Its  paler  splendors  were  not  quite  in  vain. 
From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  firelight's  glow 
Streamed  through  the  casement  o'er  the  spectral 

snow; 

Here,  while  the  night-wind  wreaked  its  frantic  will 
On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound  hill, 
Rent  the  cracked  topsail  from  its  quivering  yard, 
And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms  had  scarred, 
Fenced  by  these  walls  the  peaceful  taper  shone, 
Nor  felt  a  breath  to  slant  its  trembling  cone. 

Not  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 
When  the  red  curtain  spread  its  falling  screen; 
O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours  were  past, 
And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast ; 
Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  arms  would  lend 
In  genial  welcome  to  some  easy  friend, 
Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing  nerves, 
Slow  moulding,  plastic,  to  its  hollow  curves ; 
Perchance  indulging,  if  of  generous  creed, 
In  brave  Sir  Walter's  dream-compelling  weed. 
Or,  happier  still,  the  evening  hour  would  bring 
To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 
And  while  the  punch-bowl's  sounding  depths  were 

stirred,  — 
Its  silver  cherubs  smiling  as  they  heard,  — 


0  CCASIOXAL  r  OEMS.  229 

Our  hearts  would  open,  as  at  evening's  hour 
The  close-sealed  primrose  frees  its  hidden  flower. 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat  has  known, 
Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were  flown ; 
Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive  set, 
Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 
Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 
Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every  task. 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife  hand  pro 
fanes, 

O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio  reigns ; 
A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance  and  time, 
That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of  every  clime, 
Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may  claim  his  part 
In  some  quaint  corner  of  his  master's  heart. 
This  old  Decretal,  won  from  Kloss's  hoards, 
Thick-leaved,    brass-cornered,   ribbed   with    oaken 

boards, 

Stands  the  gray  patriarch  of  the  graver  rows, 
Its  fourth  ripe  century  narrowing  to  its  close ; 
Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to  view, 
"With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red  and  blue. 
There  towers  Stagira's  all-embracing  sage, 
The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page ; 
There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly  mind, 
In  yon  dark  tomb  by  jealous  clasps  confined, 
"  Olim  e  libris  "  —  (dare  I  call  it  mine  ?) 
Of  Yale's  grave  Head  and  Killingworth's  divine  ! 
In  those  square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro  fill 
The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Baskcrville ; 
High  over  all,  in  close,  compact  array, 
Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 


a3o  PICTURES  FROM 

In  lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 
Range  the  dense  volumes  of  a  humbler  race ; 
There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mysteries  teach, 
In  spectral  pictures,  or  in  crabbed  speech ; 
Harvey  and  Hallcr,  fresh  from  Nature's  page, 
Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 
Lully  and  Geber,  and  the  learned  crew 
That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not  do. 
Why  count  the  rest,  —  those  names  of  later  days 
That  many  love,  and  all  agree  to  praise,  — 
Or  point  the  titles,  where  a  glance  may  read 
The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creed  ? 
Too  well,  perchance,  the  chosen  list  would  show 
"What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim  to  know. 
Each  has  his  features,  whose  exterior  seal 
A  brush  may  copy,  or  a  sunbeam  steal ; 
Go  to  his  study,  —  on  the  nearest  shelf 
Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What  though  for  months  the  tranquil  dust  de 
scends, 

Whitening  the  heads  of  these  mine  ancient  friends, 
While  the  damp  offspring  of  the  modern  press 
Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured  dress ; 
Not  less  I  love  each  dull  familiar  face, 
Nor  less  should  miss  it  from  the  appointed  place ; 
I  snatch  the  book,  along  whose  burning  leaves 
His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves, 
Yet,  while  proud  Hester's  fiery  pangs  I  share, 
My  old  MAGNALIA  must  be  standing  there ! 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  231 


THE   BELLS. 

HEN  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal  i§ 

flung 
From  yon  tall  belfry  with  the  brazen 

tongue, 

Its  \vido  vibrations,  wafted  by  the  gale, 
To  each  far  listener  tell  a  different  tale. 

The  sexton,  stooping  to  the  quivering  floor 
Till  the  great  caldron  spills  its  brassy  roar, 
Whirls  the  hot  axle,  counting,  one  by  one, 
Each  dull  concussion,  till  his  task  is  done. 

Toil's  patient  daughter,  when  the  welcome  note 
Clangs  through  the  silence  from  the  steeple's  throat, 
Streams,  a  white  unit,  to  the  checkered  street, 
Demure,  but  guessing  whom  she  soon  shall  meet ; 
The  bell,  responsive  to  her  secret  flame, 
With  every  note  repeats  her  lover's  name. 

The  lover,  tenant  of  the  neighboring  lane, 
Sighing,  and  fearing  lest  he  sigh  in  vain, 
Hears  the  stern  accents,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Their  only  burden  one  despairing  No  ! 

Ocean's  rough  child,  whom  many  a  shore  has 

known 

Ere  homeward  breezes  swept  him  to  his  own, 
Starts  at  the  echo  as  it  circles  round, 
A  thousand  memories  kindling  with  the  sound  ; 
The  early  favorite's  unforgotten  charms, 
Whose  blue  initials  stain  his  tawny  arms ; 
His  first  farewell,  the  flapping  canvas  spread, 
The  seaward  streamers  crackling  o'er  his  head, 
His  kind,  pale  mother,  not  ashamed  to  weep 
Her  first-born's  bridal  with  the  haggard  deep, 


232  PICTURES  FROM 

"While  the  brave  father  stood  with  tearless-eye, 
Smiling  and  choking  with  his  last  good-by. 

'T  is  bnt  a  wave,  whose  spreading  circle  beats, 
"With  the  same  impulse,  every  nerve  it  meets, 
Yet  who  shall  count  the  varied  shapes  that  ride 
On  the  round  surge  of  that  aerial  tide  ! 


O  child  of  earth  !     If  floating  sounds  like 
Steal  from  thyself  their  power  to  wound  or  please, 
If  here  or  there  thy  changing  will  inclines, 
As  the  bright  zodiac  shifts  its  rolling  signs, 
Look  at  thy  heart,  and  when  its  depths  are  known 
Then  try  thy  brother's,  judging  by  thine  own, 
But  keep  thy  wisdom  to  the  narrower  range, 
While  its  own  standards  are  the  sport  of  change, 
Nor  count  us  rebels  when  we  disobey 
The  passing  breath  that  holds  thy  passion's  sway. 


NON-RESISTANCE. 

ERHAPS  too  far  in  these   considerate 

days 
Has    patience    carried    her  submissive 

ways  ; 

Wisdom  has  taught  us  to  be  calm  and  meek, 
To  take  one  blow,  and  turn  the  other  cheek ; 
It  is  not  written  what  a  man  shall  do, 
If  the  rude  caitiff  strike  the  other  too ! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine  hour  of  need 
God  help  thee,  guarded  by  the  passive  creed  1 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  233 

As  the  lone  pilgrim  trusts  to  beads  and  cowl, 
When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray  wolf 's  howl ; 
As  the  deep  galleon  trusts  her  gilded  prow 
When  the  black  corsair  slants  athwart  her  bow ; 
As  the  poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful  mien, 
Trusts  to  his  feathers,  shining  golden-green, 
When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crimson  beak 
Has  rustled  shadowy  from  its  splintered  peak ; 
So  trust  thy  friends,  whose  babbling  tongues  would 

charm 

The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 
Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 
3Trom  bellowing  fort  and  thunder-freighted  keel ! 


THE  MORAL  BULLY. 


ON  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to 

wear 

A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 
Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded  place 
One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space ; 
A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 
Whom  small  disturbance  whitens  round  the  lip  ; 
One  of  those  harmless  spectacled  machines, 
The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes  ; 
Whom  schoolboys  question  if  their  walk  transcends 
The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends  ; 
Whom  John,  obedient  to  his  master's  sign, 
Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 
While  Peter,  glistening  with  luxurious  scorn, 
Husks  his  white  ivories  like  an  ear  of  corn ; 


z34  PICTURES  FROM 

Dark  in  tlic  brow  and  bilious  in  the  cheek, 
Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once  a  week, 
Conspicuous,  annual,  in  their  threadbare  suits, 
And  the  laced  high-lows  which  they  call  their  boota* 
Well  mayst  thou  shun  that  dingy  front  severe, 
But  him,  O  stranger,  him  thou  canst  not  fear! 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  despise, 
Man  of  broad  shoulders  and  heroic  size  ! 
The  tiger,  writliing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops  at  the  fountain  where  the  cobra  stings. 
In  that  lean  phantom,  whose  extended  glove 
Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold  the  master  that  can  tame  thee  down 
To  crouch,  the  vassal  of  his  Sunday  frown ; 
His  velvet  throat  against  thy  corded  wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled  fist ! 

The  MORAL  BULLY,  though  he  never  swears, 
Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry  stairs, 
Though  meekness  plants  his  backward-sloping  hat, 
And  non-resistance  tics  his  white  cravat, 
Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to  be  seen 
In  the  same  plight  with  Shyloek's  gaberdine, 
Hugs  the  same  passion  to  his  narrow  breast 
That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's  chest, 
Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in  his  rear 
That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buccaneer, 
Peels  the  same  comfort  while  his  acrid  words 
Turn  the  sweet  milk  of  kindness  into  curds, 
Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  debate, 
That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our  hate, 
As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's  deck, 
When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  staggering  wreck ! 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  235 

Heaven  keep  us  all !     Is  every  rascal  clown 
Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock  us  down  ? 
Has  every  scarecrow,  whose  cachectic  soul 
Seems  fresh  from  Bedlam,  airing  on  parole, 
Who,  though  he  carries  but  a  doubtful  trace 
Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 
From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to  pay, 
Has  dodged  some  vices  in  a  shabby  way, 
The  right  to  stick  us  with  his  cutthroat  terms, 
And  bait  his  homilies  with  his  brother  worms  1 


THE  MIND'S   DIET. 

0  life  worth  naming  ever  comes  to  good 
If  always   nourished  on   the  self-same 

food; 

The  creeping  mite  may  live  so  if  he  please, 
And  feed  on  Stilton  till  he  turns  to  cheese, 
But  cool  Magcndic  proves  beyond  a  doubt, 
If  mammals  try  it,  that  their  eyes  drop  out. 

No  reasoning  natures  find  it  safe  to  feed, 
For  their  sole  diet,  on  a  single  creed ; 
It  spoils  their  eyeballs  while  it  spares  their  tongues, 
And  starves  the  heart  to  feed  the  noisy  lungs. 

When  the  first  larvoc  on  the  elm  are  seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves,  are  green ; 
Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint  to  brown ; 
On  the  blue  flower  a  bluer  flower  you  spy, 
You  stretch  to  pluck  it  —  't  is  a  butterfly ; 


*36  PICTURES  FROM 

The  flattened  tree- toads  so  resemble  bark, 
They  're  hard  to  find  as  Ethiops  in  the  dark ; 
The  woodcock,  stiffening  to  fictitious  mud, 
Cheats  the  young  sportsman  thirsting  for  his  blood. 
So  by  long  living  on  a  single  lie, 
Nay,  on  one  truth,  will  creatures  get  its  dye  ; 
Red,  yellow,  green,  they  take  their  subject's  hue,  — 
Except  when  squabbling  turns  them  black  and  blue  ! 


OUR   LIMITATIONS. 


E  trust  and  fear,  we  question  and  believe, 
From  life's  dark  threads  a  trembling  faith 

to  weave, 

Frail  as  the  web  that  misty  night  has  spun, 
Whose  dew-gemmed  awnings  glitter  in  the  sun. 
While  the  calm  centuries  spell  their  lessons  out, 
Each  truth  we  conquer  spreads  the  realm  of  doubt ; 
When  Sinai's  summit  was  Jehovah's  throne, 
The  chosen  Prophet  knew  his  voice  alone ; 
When  Pilate's  hall  that  awful  question  heard, 
The  Heavenly  Captive  answered  not  a  word. 

Eternal  Truth !  beyond  our  hopes  and  fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad  spheres  ! 
'From  age  to  age,  while  History  carves  sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  flaming  curves  of  time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we  know ! 


OCCASIONAL  POZMS.  237 


THE  OLD  PLAYER. 

curtain  rose ;  in  thunders  long  and 

loud 
The  galleries  rung ;  the  veteran  actor 

bowed. 

In  naming  line  the  telltales  of  the  stage 
Showed  on  his  brow  the  autograph  of  age  ; 
Pale,  hueless  waves  amid  his  clustered  hair, 
And  umbered  shadows,  prints  of  toil  and  care  ; 
Round  the  wide  circle  glanced  Ms  vacant  eye,  — 
He  strove  to  speak,  —  his  voice  was  but  a  sigh. 

Year  after  year  had  seen  its  short-lived  race 
Flit  past  the  scenes  and  others  take  their  place ; 
Yet  the  old  prompter  watched  his  accents  still, 
His  name  still  flaunted  on  the  evening's  bill. 
Heroes,  the  monarchs  of  the  scenic  floor, 
Had  died  in  earnest  and  were  heard  no  more ; 
Beauties,  whose  cheeks  such  roseate  bloom  o'er- 

spread 

They  faced  the  footlights  in  unborrowed  red, 
Had  faded  slowly  through  successive  shades 
To  gray  duennas,  foils  of  younger  maids  ; 
Sweet  voices  lost  the  melting  tones  that  start 
With  Southern  throbs  the  sturdy  Saxon  heart, 
While  fresh  sopranos  shook  the  painted  sky 
With  their  long,  breathless,  quivering  locust-cry. 
Yet  there  he  stood,  —  the  man  of  other  days, 
In  the  clear  present's  full,  unsparing  blaze, 
As  on  the  oak  a  faded  leaf  that  clings 
While  a  new  April  spreads  its  burnished  wings. 


238  PICTURES  FROM 

How  bright  yon  rows  that  soared  in  triple  tier, 
Their  central  sun  the  flashing  chandelier  ! 
How  dim  the  eye  that  sought  with  doubtful  aim 
Some  friendly  smile  it  still  might  dare  to  claim  ! 
How  fresh  these  hearts  !  his  own  how  worn  and 

cold! 
Such  the  sad  thoughts  that  long-drawn  sigh  had  told. 

No  word  yet  faltered  on  his  trembling  tongue ; 
Again,  again,  the  crashing  galleries  rung. 
As  the  old  guardsman  at  the  bugle's  blast 
Hears  in  its  strain  the  echoes  of  the  past ; 
So,  as  the  plaudits  rolled  and  thundered  round, 
A  life  of  memories  startled  at  the  sound. 

He  lived  again,  —  the  page  of  earliest  days,  — 
Days  of  small  fee  and  parsimonious  praise  ; 
Then  lithe  young  Romeo — hark  that  silvered  tone, 
From  those  smooth  lips  —  alas  !  they  were  his  own. 
Then  the  bronzed  Moor,  with  all  his  love  and  woe, 
Told  his  strange  tale  of  midnight  melting  snow ; 
And  dark-plumed  Hamlet,  with  his  cloak  and  blade, 
Looked  on  the  royal  ghost,  himself  a  shade. 
All  in  one  flash,  his  youthful  memories  came, 
Traced  in  bright  hues  of  evanescent  flame, 
As  the  spent  swimmer's  in  the  lifelong  dream, 
While  the  last  bubble  rises  through  the  stream. 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 
For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
"Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 
If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  at  their  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  239 

Turn  to  the  record  where  liis  years  are  told,  — 
Count  his   gray  hairs,  —  they  cannot   make  him 
old! 

What  magic  power  has  changed  the  faded  mime  ? 
One  breath  of  memory  on  the  dust  of  time. 
As  the  last  window  in  the  buttressed  wall 
Of  some  gray  minster  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Though  to  the  passing  crowd  its  hues  are  spread, 
A  dull  mosaic,  yellow,  green,  and  red, 
Viewed  from  within,  a  radiant  glory  shows 
"When  through  its  pictured  screen  the  sunlight  flows, 
And  kneeling  pilgrims  on  its  storied  pane 
See  angels  glow  in  every  shapeless  stain ; 
So  streamed  the  vision  through  his  sunken  eye, 
Clad  in  the  splendors  of  his  morning  sky. 

All  the  wild  hopes  his  eager  boyhood  knew, 
All  the  young  fancies  riper  years  proved  true, 
The  sweet,  low-whispered  words,  the  winning  glance 
From  queens  of  song,  from  Houris  of  the  dance, 
Wealth's  lavish  gift,  and  Flattery's  soothing  phrase, 
And  Beauty's  silence  when  her  blush  was  praise, 
And  melting  Pride,  her  lashes  wet  with  tears, 
Triumphs  and  banquets,  wreaths  and  crowns  and 

cheers, 

Pangs  of  wrild  joy  that  perish  on  the  tongue, 
And  all  that  poets  dream,  but  leave  unsung  ! 

In  every  heart  some  viewless  founts  are  fed 
From  far-off  hill-sides  where  the  dews  were  shed ; 
On  the  worn  features  of  the  weariest  face 
Some  youthful  memory  leaves  its  hidden  trace, 
As  in  old  gardens  left  by  exiled  kings 
The  marble  basins  tell  of  hidden  springs, 
But,  gray  with  dust,  and  overgrown  with  weeds, 
Their  choking  jets  the  passer  little  heeds, 


240  PICTURES  FROM 

Till  time's  revenges  break  their  seals  away, 
And,  clad  in  rainbow  light,  the  waters  play. 

Good  night,  fond  dreamer !  let  the  curtain  fall : 
The  world  's  a  stage,  and  we  are  players  all. 
A  strange  rehearsal !     Kings  without  their  crowns, 
And  threadbare  lords,  and  jewel-wearing  clowns, 
Speak  the  vain  words  that  mock  their  throbbing 

hearts, 

As  Want,  stern  prompter !  spells  them  out  their  parts. 
The  tinselled  hero  whom  we  praise  and  pay 
Is  twice  an  actor  in  a  twofold  play. 
We  smile  at  children  when  a  painted  screen 
Seems  to  their  simple  eyes  a  real  scene ; 
Ask  the  poor  hireling,  who  has  left  his  throne 
To  seek  the  cheerless  home  he  calls  his  own, 
Which  of  his  double  lives  most  real  seems, 
The  world  of  solid  fact  or  scenic  dreams  ? 
Canvas,  or  clouds,  —  the  footlights,  or  the  spheres, — 
The  play  of  two  short  hours,  or  seventy  years  ? 

Dream  on !    Though  Heaven  may  woo  our  open 

eyes, 

Through  their  closed  lids  we  look  on  fairer,  skies ; 
Truth  is  for  other  worlds,  and  hope  for  this  ; 
The  cheating  future  lends  the  present's  bliss  ; 
Life  is  a  running  shade,  with  fettered  hands, 
That  chases  phantoms  over  shifting  sands  ; 
Death  a  still  spectre  on  a  marble  seat, 
With  ever  clutching  palms  and  shackled  feet ; 
The  airy  shapes  that  mock  life's  slender  chain, 
The  flying  joys  he  strives  to  clasp  in  vain, 
Death  only  grasps  ;  to  live  is  to  pursue,  — 
Dream  on  !  there  's  nothing  but  illusion  true  ! 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  241 


THE  ISLAND   RUIN. 

E  that  have  faced  the  billows  and  the  spray 
Of  good  St.  Botolph's  island-studded  bay, 
As  from  the  gliding  bark  your  eye  has 

scanned 

The  beaconed  rocks,  the  wave-girt  hills  of  sand, 
Have  ye  not  marked  one  elm-o'ershadowed  isle, 
Round  as  the  dimple  chased  in  beauty's  smile,  — 
A  stain  of  verdure  on  an  azure  field, 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  battered  shield  ? 
Fixed  in  the  narrow  gorge  of  Ocean's  path, 
Peaceful  it  meets  him  in  his  hour  of  wrath ; 
When  the  mailed  Titan,  scourged  by  hissing  gales, 
Writhes  in  his  glistening  coat  of  clashing  scales ; 
The  storm-beat  island  spreads  its  tranquil  green, 
Calm  as  an  emerald  on  an  angry  queen. 

So  fair  when  distant  should  be  fairer  near  ; 
A  boat  shall  waft  us  from  the  outstretched  pier. 
The  breeze  blows  fresh ;  we  reach  the  island's  edge, 
Our  shallop  rustling  through  the  yielding  sedge. 

No  welcome  greets  us  on  the  desert  isle ; 
Those  elms,  far-shadowing,  hide  no  stately  pile  j 
Yet  these  green  ridges  mark  an  ancient  road ; 
And  lo  !  the  traces  of  a  fair  abode  ; 
The  long  gray  line  that  marks  a  garden-wall, 
And  heaps  of  fallen  beams,  —  fire-branded  all. 

Who  sees  unmoved,  a  ruin  at  his  feet, 
The  lowliest  home  where  human  hearts  have  beat  ? 
Its  hearth-stone,  shaded  with  the  bistre  stain 
A  century's  showery  torrents  wash  in  vain ; 
Its  starving  orchard,  where  the  thistle  blows 
And  mossy  trunks  still  mark  the  broken  rows; 
16 


242.  PICTURES  FROM 

Its  chimney-loving  poplar,  oftcncst  seen 
Next  an  old  roof,  or  where  a  roof  has  been ; 
Its  knot-grass,  plantain,  —  all  the  social  weeds, 
Man's  mute  companions,  following'  where  he  leads  j 
Its  dwarfed,  pale  flowers,  that  show  their  straggling 

heads, 

Sown  by  the  wind  from  grass-choked  garden-beds  ; 
Its  woodbine,  creeping  where  it  used  to  climb ; 
Its  roses,  breathing  of  the  olden  time  ; 
All  the  poor  shows  the  curious  idler  sees, 
As  life's  thin  shadows  waste  by  slow  degrees, 
Till  naught  remains,  the  saddening  tale  to  tell, 
Save  home's  last  wrecks,  —  the  cellar  and  the  well  I 
And  whose  the  home  that  strews  in  black  decay 
The  one  green-glowing  island  of  the  bay  ? 
Some  dark-browed  pirate's,  jealous  of  the  fate 
That  seized  the  strangled  \vrctch  of  "Nix's  Mate"? 
Some  forger's,  skulking  in  a  borrowed  name, 
Whom  Tyburn's  dangling  halter  yet  may  claim  ? 
Some  wan-eyed  exile's,  wealth  and  sorrow's  heir, 
Who  sought  a  lone  retreat  for  tears  and  prayer  ? 
Some  brooding  poet's^  sure  of  deathless  fame, 
Had  not  his  epic  perished  in  the  flame  ? 
Or  some  gray  wooer's,  whom  a  girlish  frown 
Chased  from  his  solid  friends  and  sober  town  ? 
Or  some   plain  tradesman's,   fond  of  shade   and 

ease, 

Who  sought  them  both  beneath  these  quiet  trees  ? 
Why  question  mutes  no  question  can  unlock, 
Dumb  as  the  legend  on  the  Dighton  rock  ? 
One  thing  at  least  these  ruined  heaps  declare,  — 
They  were  a  shelter  once;  a  man  lived  there. 

But  where  the  charred  and  crumbling  records  fail. 
Some  breathing  lips  may  piece  the  half-tpld  talc ; 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  243 

No  man  may  live  with  neighbors  such  as  these, 
Though  girt  with  walls  of  rock  and  angry  seas, 
And  shield  his  home,  his  children,  or  his  wife, 
His  ways,  his  means,  his  vote,  his  creed,  his  life, 
From  the  dread  sovereignty  of  Ears  and  Eyes 
And  the  small  member  that  beneath  them  lies. 

They  told  strange  things  of  that  mysterious  man  ; 
Believe  who  will,  deny  them  such  as  can  ; 
Why  should  we  fret  if  every  passing  sail 
Had  its  old  seaman  talking  on  the  rail  ? 
The  deep-sunk  schooner  stuffed  with  Eastern  lime, 
Slow  wedging  on,  as  if  the  waves  were  slime ; 
The  knife-edged  clipper  with  her  ruffled  spars, 
The  pawing  steamer  with  her  mane  of  stars, 
The  bull-browed  galliot  butting  through  the  stream, 
The  wide-sailed  yacht  that  slipped  along  her  beam, 
The  deck-piled  sloops,  the  pinched  chebacco-boats, 
The  frigate,  black  with  thunder-freighted  throats, 
All  had  their  talk  about  the  lonely  man ; 
And  thus,  in  varying  phrase,  the  story  ran. 

His  name  had  cost  him  little  care  to  seek, 
Plain,  honest,  brief,  a  decent  name  to  speak, 
Common,  not  vulgar,  just  the  kind  that  slips 
With  least  suggestion  from  a  stranger's  lips. 
His  birthplace  England,  as  his  speech  might  show, 
Or  his  hale  cheek,  that  wore  the  red-streak's  glow ; 
His  mouth  sharp-moulded ;  in  its  mirth  or  scorn 
There  came  a  flash  as  from  the  milky  corn, 
When  from  the  ear  you  rip  the  rustling  sheath, 
And  the  white  ridges  show  their  even  teeth. 
His  stature  moderate,  but  his  strength  confessed, 
In  spite  of  broadcloth,  by  his  ample  breast ; 
Full-armed,  thick-handed ;  one  that  had  been  strong, 
And  might  be  dangerous  still,  if  things  went  wrong. 


244  PICTURES  FROM 

He  lived  at  ease  beneath  his  elm-trees7  shade, 
Did  naught  for  gain,  yet  all  his  debts  were  paid ; 
Rich,  so  't  was  thought,  but  careful  of  his  store ; 
Had  ail  he  needed,  claimed  to  have  no  more. 

But  some  that  lingered  round  the  isle  at  night 
Spoke  of  strange  stealthy  doings  in  their  sight ; 
Of  creeping  lonely  visits  that  he  made 
To  nooks  and  corners,  with  a  torch  and  spade. 
Some  said  they  saw  the  hollow  of  a  cave ; 
One,  given  to  fables,  swore  it  was  a  grave ; 
Whereat  some  shuddered,  others  boldly  cried, 
Those  prowling  boatmen  lied,  and  knew  they  lied. 

They  said  his  house  was  framed  with  curious  cares, 
Lest  some  old  friend  might  enter  unawares ; 
That  on  the  platform  at  his  chamber's  door 
Hinged  a  loose  square  that  opened  through  the  floor ; 
Touch  the  black  silken  tassel  next  the  bell, 
Down,  with  a  crash,  the  flapping  trap-door  fell ; 
Three  stories  deep  the  falling  wretch  would  strike, 
To  writhe  at  leisure  on  a  boarder's  pike. 

By  day  armed  always  ;  double-armed  at  night, 
His  tools  lay  round  him ;  wake  him  such  as  might. 
A  carbine  hung  beside  his  India  fan, 
His  hand  could  reach  a  Turkish  ataghan ; 
Pistols,  with  quaint-carved  stocks  and  barrels  gilt, 
Crossed  a  long  dagger  with  a  jewelled  hilt ; 
A  slashing  cutlass  stretched  along  the  bed ;  — 
All  this  was  what  those  lying  boatmen  said. 

Then  some  were  full  of  wondrous  stories  told 
About  old  chests  and  cupboards  full  of  gold ; 
Of  the  wedged  ingots  and  the  silver  bars 
That  cost  old  pirates  ugly  sabre-scars ; 
How  his  laced  wallet  often  would  disgorge 
The  fresh-faced  guinea  of  an  English  George, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  245 

Or  sweated  ducat,  palmed  by  Jews  of  yore, 
Or  double  Joe,  or  Portuguese  moidore, 
And  how  his  finger  wore  a  rubied  ring 
Fit  for  the  white-necked  play-girl  of  a  king. 
But  these  fine  legends,  told  with  staring  eyes, 
Met  with  small  credence  from  the  old  and  wise. 
Why  tell  each  idle  guess,  each  whisper  vain  ? 
Enough  :  the  scorched  and  cindered  beams  remain. 
He  came,  a  silent  pilgrim  to  the  West, 
Some  old-world  mystery  throbbing  in  his  breast ; 
Close  to  the  thronging  mart  he  dwelt  alone ; 
He  lived  ;  he  died.     The  rest  is  all  unknown. 

Stranger,  whose  eyes  the  shadowy  isle  survey, 
As  the  black  steamer  dashes  through  the  bay, 
Why  ask  his  buried  secret  to  divine  ? 
He  was  thy  brother ;  speak,  and  tell  us  thine ! 


THE  BANKER'S   DINNER. 

HE  Banker's  dinner  is  the  stateliest  feast 
The  town  has  heard  of  for  a  year,  at  least ; 
The  sparry  lustres  shed  their  broadest 
blaze, 

Damask  and  silver  catch  and  spread  the  rays ; 

The  florist's  triumphs  crown  the  daintier  spoil 

Won  from  sea,  the  forest,  or  the  soil ; 

The  steaming  hot-house  yields  its  largest  pines, 

The  sunless  vaults  unearth  their  oldest  wines. 

With  one  admiring  look  the  scene  survey, 

And  turn  a  moment  from  the  bright  display. 


246  PICTURES  FROM 

Of  all  the  joys  of  earthly  pride  or  power, 
What  gives  most  life,  worth  living,  in  an  hour  ? 
"When  Victory  settles  on  the  doubtful  fight 
And  the  last  foeman  wheels  in  panting  flight, 
No  thrill  like  this  is  felt  beneath  the  sun ; 
Life's  sovereign  moment  is  a  battle  won. 
But  say  what  next  ?     To  shape  a  Senate's  choice, 
By  the  strong  magic  of  the  master's  voice ; 
To  ride  the  stormy  tempest  of  debate 
That  whirls  the  wavering  fortunes  of  the  state. 

Third  in  the  list,  the  happy  lover's  prize 
Is  won  by  honeyed  words  from  women's  eyes. 
If  some  would  have  it  first  instead  of  third, 
So  let  it  be,  —  I  answer  not  a  word. 

The  fourth,  —  sweet  readers,  let  the  thoughtless 

half 

Have  its  small  shrug  and  inoffensive  laugh ; 
Let  the  grave  quarter  wear  its  virtuous  frown, 
The  stern  half-quarter  try  to  scowl  us  down; 
But  the  last  eighth,  the  choice  and  sifted  few, 
Will  hear  my  words,  and,  pleased,  confess  them  true. 

Among  the  great  whom  Heaven  has  made  to  shine, 
How  few  have  learned  the  art  of  arts,  —  to  dine  ! 
Nature,  indulgent  to  our  daily  need, 
Kind-hearted  mother  !  taught  us  all  to  feed ; 
But  the  chief  art,  —  how  rarely  Nature  flings 
This  choicest  gift  among  her  social  kings ! 
Say,  man  of  truth,  has  life  a  brighter  hour 
Than  waits  the  chosen  guest  who  knows  his  power  ? 

He  moves  with  ease,  itself  an  angel  charm,  — 
Lifts  with  light  touch  my  lady's  jewelled  arm, 
Slides  to  his  seat,  half  leading  and  half  led, 
Smiling  but  quiet  till  the  grace  is  said, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  247 

Then  gently  kindles,  while  by  slow  degrees 
Creep  softly  out  the  little  arts  that  please ; 
Bright  looks,  the  cheerful  language  of  the  eye, 
The  neat,  crisp  question  and  the  gay  reply,  — 
Talk  light  and  airy,  such  as  well  may  pass 
Between  the  rested  fork  and  lifted  glass  ;  — 
With  play  like  this  the  earlier  evening  flies, 
Till  rustling  silks  proclaim  the  ladies  rise. 

His  hour  has  come,  —  he  looks  along  the  chairs, 
As  the  Great  Duke  surveyed  his  iron  squares. 

—  That  's  the  young  traveller,  —  is  n't  much  to 

show,  — 
Fast  on  the  road,  but  at  the  table  slow. 

—  Next  him,  —  you  see  the  author  in  his  look,  — 
His  forehead  lined  with  wrinkles  like  a  book,  — 
"Wrote  the  great  history  of  the  ancient  Huns,  — • 
Holds  back  to  fire  among  the  heavy  guns. 

—  O,  there  's  our  poet  seated  at  his  side, 
Beloved  of  ladies,  soft,  cerulean-eyed. 
Poets  are  prosy  in  their  common  talk, 

As  the  fast  trotters,  for  the  most  part,  walk. 

—  And  there  's   our  well-dressed  gentleman,  who 

sits, 

By  right  divine,  no  doubt,  among  the  wits, 
Who  airs  his  tailor's  patterns  when  he  walks, 
The  man  that  often  speaks,  but  never  talks. 
Why  should  he  talk,  whose  presence  lends  a  grace 
To  every  table  where  he  shows  his  face  ? 
He  knows  the  manual  of  the  silver  fork, 
Can  name  his  claret  —  if  he  sees  the  cork,  — 
Remark  that  «  White-top  "  was  considered  fine, 
But  swear  the  "  Juno  "  is  the  better  wine  ;  — 
Is  not  this  talking  ?     Ask  Quintilian's  rules  ; 
If  they  say  No,  the  town  has  many  fools. 


248  PICTURES  FROM 

—  Pause  for  a  moment,  —  for  our  eyes  behold 
The  plain  trasceptred  king,  the  man  of  gold, 
The  thrice  illustrious  threefold  millionnaire ; 
Mark  his  slow-creeping,  dead,  metallic  stare  ; 
His  eyes,  dull  glimmering,  like  the  balance-pan 
That  weighs  its  guinea  as  he  weighs  his  man. 

—  Who  'g  next  ?     An  artist,  in  a  satin  tie 
Whose  ample  folds  defeat  the  curious  eye. 

—  And  there's  the  cousin,  —  must  be  asked,  yon 

know,  — 

Looks  like  a  spinster  at  a  baby-show. 
Hope  he  is  cool,  —  they  set  him  next  the  door,  — 
And  likes  his  place,  between  the  gap  and  bore. 
— Next  comes  a  Congress-man,  distinguished  guest! 
We  don't  count  him,  —  they  asked  him  with  the  rest  ; 
And  then  some  white  cravats,  with  well-shaped  ties, 
And  heads  above  them  which  their  owners  prize. 

Of  all  that  cluster  round  the  genial  board, 
Not  one  so  radiant  as  the  banquet's  lord. 
Some  say  they  fancy,  but  they  know  not  why, 
A  shade  of  trouble  brooding  in  his  eye, 
Nothing,  perhaps,  • —  the  rooms  are  over-hot,  — 
Yet  see  his  cheek,  —  the  dull-red  burning  spot,  — 
Taste  the  brown  sherry  which  he  does  not  pass,  — > 
Ha !     That  is  brandy  ;  see  him  fill  his  glass  ! 

But  not  forgetful  of  his  feasting  friends, 
To  each  in  turn  some  lively  word  he  sends ; 
See  how  he  throws  his  baited  lines  about, 
And  plays  his  men  as  anglers  play  their  trout. 

With  the  dry  sticks  all  bonfires  are  begun ; 
Bring  the  first  fagot,  proser  number  one ! 
A  question  drops  among  the  listening  crew 
And  hits  the  traveller,  pat  on  Timbuctoo. 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  249 

We  're  on  the  Niger,  somewhere  near  its  source,  — 
Not  the  least  hurry,  take  the  river's  course 
Through  Kissi,  Foota,  Kankan,  Bammakoo, 
Bambarra,  Sego,  so  to  Timbuctoo, 
Thence  down  to  Youri ;  —  stop  him  if  we  can, 
We  can't  fare  worse,  —  wake  up  the  Congress-man ! 
The  Congress-man,  once  on  his  talking  legs, 
Stirs  up  his  knowledge  to  its  thickest  dregs. 
Tremendous  draught  for  dining  men  to  quaff! 
Nothing  will  choke  him  but  a  purpling  laugh. 
A  word,  —  a  shout,  —  a  mighty  roar,  —  't  is  done ; 
Extinguished ;  lassoed  by  a  treacherous  pun. 

A  laugh  is  priming  to  the  loaded  soul ; 
The  scattering  shots  become  a  steady  roll, 
Broke  by  sharp  cracks  that  run  along  the  line, 
The  light  artillery  of  the  talker's  wine. 
The  kindling  goblets  flame  with  golden  dews, 
The  hoarded  flasks  their  tawny  fire  diffuse, 
And  the  Rhine's  breast-milk  gushes  cold  and  bright, 
Pale  as  the  moon  and  maddening  as  her  light ; 
With  crimson  juice  the  thirsty  southern  sky 
Sucks  from  the  hills  where  buried  armies  lie, 
So  that  the  dreamy  passion  it  imparts 
Is  drawn  from  heroes'  bones  and  lovers'  hearts. 

But  lulls  will  come ;  the  flashing  soul  transmits 
Its  gleams  of  light  in  alternating  fits. 
The  shower  of  talk  that  rattled  down  amain 
Ends  in  small  pattcrings  like  an  April's  rain ; 
The  voices  halt ;  the  game  is  at  a  stand ; 
Now  for  a  solo  from  the  master-hand ! 

'T  is  but  a  story,  —  quite  a  simple  tiling,  — 
An  aria  touched  upon  a  single  string, 
But  every  accent  comes  with  such  a  grace 
The  stupid  servants  listen  in  their  place, 


3^0  PICTURES  FROM 

Each  with  his  waiter  in  his  lifted  hands, 
Still  as  a  well-bred  pointer  when  he  stands. 
A  query  checks  him  :  "Is  he  quite  exact  ?  "  — 
(This  from  a  grizzled,  square-jawed  man  of  fact.) 
The  sparkling  story  leaves  him  to  his  fate, 
Crushed  by  a  witness,  smothered  with  a  date, 
As  a  swift  river,  sown  with  many  a  star, 
Runs  brighter,  rippling  on  a  shallow  bar. 
*Thc  smooth  divine  suggests  a  graver  doubt ; 
A  neat  quotation  bowls  the  parson  out ; 
Then,  sliding  gayly  from  his  own  display, 
lie  laughs  the  learned  dulness  all  away. 

So,  with  the  merry  tale  and  jovial  song, 
The  jocund  evening  whirls  itself  along, 
Till  the  last  chorus  shrieks  its  loud  encore, 
And  the  white  neckcloths  vanish  through  the  door. 

One  savage  word !  —  The  menials  know  its  tone, 
And  slink  away ;  the  master  stands  alone. 
"Well  played,  by  — ";  breathe  not  what  were  best 

unheard ; 

His  goblet  shivers  while  he  speaks  the  word,  — 
"  If  wine  tells  truth,  —  and  so  have  said  the  wise,  — 
It  makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  brandy  lies ! 
Bankrupt  to-morrow,  —  millionnaire  to-day,  — 
The  farce  is  over,  —  now  begins  the  play  !  " 

The  spring  he  touches  lets  a  panel  glide ; 
An  iron  closet  lurks  beneath  the  slide, 
Bright  with  such  treasures  as  a  search  might  bring 
From  the  deep  pockets  of  a  truant  king. 
Two  diamonds,  eyeballs  of  a  God  of  bronze, 
Bought  from  his  faithful  priest,  a  pious  Bonze ; 
A  string  of  brilliants  ;  rubies,  three  or  four ; 
Bags  of  old  coin  and  bars  of  virgin  ore ; 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  251 

A  jewelled  poniard  and  a  Turkish  knife, 
Noiseless  and  useful  if  AVO  come  to  strife. 

Gone  !     As  a  pirate  flies  before  the  wind, 
And  not  one  tear  for  all  he  leaves  behind ! 
From  all  the  love  his  better  years  have  known 
Fled  like  a  felon,  —  ah  !  but  not  alone  ! 
The  chariot  flashes  through  a  lantern's  glare,  — 
O  the  wild  eyes  !  the  storm  of  sable  hair  ! 
Still  to  his  side  the  broken  heart  will  cling,  — 
The  bride  of  shame,  the  wife  without  the  ring : 
Hark,  the  deep  oath, — the  wail  of  frenzied  woe, — 
Lost !  lost  to  hope  of  Heaven  and  peace  below ! 

He  kept  his  secret ;  but  the  seed  of  crime 
Bursts  of  itself  in  God's  appointed  time. 
The  lives  he  wrecked  were  scattered  far  and  wide ; 
One  never  blamed  nor  wept,  —  she  only  died. 
None  knew  his  lot,  though  idle  tongues  would  say 
He  sought  a  lonely  refuge  far  away, 
And  there,  with  borrowed  name  and  altered  mien, 
He  died  unheeded,  as  he  lived  unseen. 
The  moral  market  had  the  usual  chills 
Of  Virtue  suffering  from  protested  bills  ; 
The  White  Cravats,  to  friendship's  memory  true, 
Sighed  for  the  past,  surveyed  the  future  too ; 
Their  sorrow  breathed  in  one  expressive  line,  — 
"  Gave  pleasant  dinners ;  who  has  got  his  wine  1  'J 


PICTURES  FROM 


THE   MYSTERIOUS  ILLNESS. 

HAT  ailed  young  Lucius  ?   Art  had  vain 
ly  tried 

To  guess  his  ill,  and  found  herself  defied. 

The  Augur  plied  his  legendary  skill  ; 
Useless  ;  the  fair  young  Roman  languished  still. 
His  chariot  took  him  every  cloudless  day 
Along  the  Pincian  Hill  or  Appian  Way  ; 
They  nibbed  his  wasted  limbs  with  sulphurous  oil, 
Oozed  from  the  far-off  Orient's  heated  soil  ; 
They  led  him  tottering  down  the  steamy  path 
Where  bubbling  fountains  filled  the  thermal  bath  ; 
Borne  in  his  litter  to  Egeria's  cave, 
They  washed  him,  shivering,  in  her  icy  wave. 
They  sought  all  curious  herbs  and  costly  stones, 
They  scraped  the  moss  that  grew  on  dead  men's 

bones, 

They  tried  all  cures  the  votive  tablets  taught, 
Scoured  every  place   whence  healing  drugs  were 

brought, 

O'er  Thracian  hills  his  breathless  couriers  ran, 
His  slaves  waylaid  the  Syrian  caravan. 

At  last  a  servant  heard  a  stranger  speak 
A  new  chirurgeon's  name  ;  a  clever  Greek, 
Skilled  in  his  art  ;  from  Pergamus  he  came 
To  Rome  but  lately  ;   GALEN  was  the  name. 
The  Greek  was  called  :  a  man  with  piercing  eyes, 
Who  must  be  cunning,  and  who  might  be  wise. 
He  spoke  but  little,  —  if  they  pleased,  he  said, 
He  'd  wait  awhile  beside  the  sufferer's  bed. 
So  by  his  side  he  sat,  serene  and  calm, 
His  very  accents  soft  as  healing  balm  ; 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  253 

Not  curious  seemed,  but  every  movement  spied, 
His  sharp  eyes  searching  where  they  seemed  to 

glide ; 

Asked  a  few  questions,  —  what  he  felt,  and  where .? 
"  A  pain  just  here,"  "  A  constant  beating  there." 
Who  ordered  bathing  for  his  aches  and  ails'? 
"  Charmis,  the  water-doctor  from  Marseilles." 
What  was  the  last  prescription  in  his  case  ? 
"  A  draught  of  wine  with  powdered  chrysoprase." 
Had  he  no  secret  grief  he  nursed  alone  ? 
A  pause ;  a  little  tremor ;  answer,  —  "  None." 

Thoughtful,  a  moment,  sat  the  cunning  leech, 
And  muttered  "  Eros  !  "  in  his  native  speech. 

In  the  broad  atrium  various  friends  await 
The  last  new  utterance  from  the  lips  of  fate ; 
Men,  matrons,  maids,  they  talk  the  question  o'er, 
And,  restless,  pace  the  tessellated  floor. 
Not  unobserved  the  youth  so  long  had  pined, 
By  gentle-hearted  dames  and  damsels  kind ; 
One  with  the  rest,  a  rich  Patrician's  pride, 
The  lady  Hermia,  called  "  the  golden-eyed  " ; 
The  same  the  old  Proconsul  fain  must  woo, 
Whom,  one  dark  night,  a  masked  sicarius  slew ; 
The  same  black  Crassus  over  roughly  pressed 
To  hear  his  suit,  —  the  Tiber  knows  the  rest, 
(Crassus  was  missed  next  morning  by  his  set; 
Next  week  the  fishers  found  him  in  their  net.) 
She  with  the  others  paced  the  ample  hall, 
Fairest,  alas  !  and  saddest  of  them  all. 

At   length    the   Greek   declared,   with   puzzled 

face, 

Some  strange  enchantment  mingled  in  the  case, 
And  naught  would  serve  to  act  as  counter-charm 
Save  a  warm  bracelet  from  a  maiden's  arm, 


254  PICTURES  FROM 

Not  every  maiden's,  —  many  might  be  tried  ; 
Which  not  in  vain,  experience  must  decide. 
Were  there  no  damsels  willing  to  attend 
And  do  such  service  for  a  suffering  friend  ? 

The  message  passed  among  the  waiting  crowd, 
First  in  a  whisper,  then  proclaimed  aloud. 
Some  wore  no  jewels  ;  some  were  disinclined, 
For  reasons  better  guessed  at  than  defined ; 
Though  all  were  saints,  —  at  least  professed  to  be,— » 
The  list  all  counted,  there  were  named  but  three. 

The  leech,  still  seated  by  the  patient's  side, 
Held  his  thin  wrist,  and  watched  him,  eagle-eyed. 

Aurelia  first,  a  fair-haired  Tuscan  girl, 
Slipped  off  her  golden  asp,  with  eyes  of  pearl. 
His  solemn  head  the  grave  physician  shook ; 
The  waxen  features  thanked  her  with  a  look. 

Olympia  next,  a  creature  half  divine, 
Sprung  from  the  blood  of  old  Evander's  line, 
Held  her  white  arm,  that  wore  a  twisted  chain 
Clasped  with  an  opal-sheeny  cymophane. 
In  vain,  O  daughter !  said  the  baffled  Greek. 
The  patient  sighed  the  thanks  he  could  not  speak. 

Last,  Hermia  entered  ;  look,  that  sudden  start  1 
The  pallium  heaves  above  his  leaping  heart ; 
The  beating  pulse,  the  cheek's  rekindled  flame, 
Those  quivering  lips,  the  secret  all  proclaim. 
The  deep  disease  long  throbbing  in  the  breast, 
The  dread  enchantment,  all  at  once  confessed  ! 
The  case  was  plain ;  the  treatment  was  begun ; 
And  Love  soon  cured  the  mischief  he  had  done. 

Young  Love,  too  oft  thy  treacherous  bandage  slips 
Down  from  the  eyes  it  blinded  to  the  lips  ! 
Ask  not  the  Gods,  O  youth,  for  clearer  sight, 
But  the  bold  heart  to  plead  thy  cause  aright. 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  255 

And  thou,  fair  maiden,  when  thy  lovers  sigh, 
Suspect  thy  flattering  car,  but  trust  thine  eye, 
And  learn  this  secret  from  the  tale  of  old ; 
No  love  so  true  as  love  that  dies  untold. 


A  MOTHER'S   SECRET. 

OW  sweet  the  sacred  legend — if  unblamed 
In  my  slight  verse  such  holy  things  are 

named  — 

Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 
Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous  boy  ! 
Ave,  Maria !     Pardon,  if  I  wrong 
Those  heavenly  words  that  shame  my  earthly  song ! 

The  choral  host  had  closed  the  Angel's  strain 
Sung  to  the  listening  watch  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  now  the  shepherds,  hastening  on  their  way, 
Sought  the  still  hamlet  where  the  Infant  lay. 
They  passed  the  fields  that  gleaning  Ruth  toiled 

o'er, — 

They  saw  afar  the  ruined  threshing-floor 
"Where  Moab's  daughter,  homeless  and  forlorn, 
Found  Boaz  slumbering  by  his  heaps  of  corn ; 
And  some  remembered  how  the  holy  scribe, 
Skilled  in  the  lore  of  every  jealous  tribe, 
Traced  the  warm  blood  of  Jesse's  royal  son 
To  that  fair  alien,  bravely  wooed  and  won. 
So  fared  they  on  to  seek  the  promised  sign 
That  marked  the  anointed  heir  of  David's  line. 

At  last,  by  forms  of  earthly  semblance  led, 
They  found  the  crowded  inn3  the  oxen's  shed* 


256  PICTURES  FROM 

No  pomp  was  there,  no  glory  shone  around 
On  the  coarse  straw  that  strewed  the  reeking  ground ; 
One  dim  retreat  a  flickering  torch  betrayed,  — 
In  that  poor  cell  the  Lord  of  Life  was  laid ! 

The  wondering  shepherds  told  their  breathless  tale 
Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleeping  vale ; 
Told  how  the  skies  with  sudden  glory  flamed, 
Told  how  the  shining  multitude  proclaimed 
"  Joy,  joy  to  earth !     Behold  the  hallowed  morn ! 
In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  is  born ! 
'  Glory  to  God ! '  let  angels  shout  on  high, 
'  Good-will  to  men  ! '  the  listening  earth  reply  I " 

They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and  accents  wild; 
Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly  child. 
No  trembling  word  the  mother's  joy  revealed,  — 
One  sigh  of  rapture,  and  her  lips  were  sealed ; 
Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 
But  kept  their  words  to  ponder  in  her  heart. 

Twelve  years  had  passed ;  the  boy  was  fair  and 

tall, 

Growing  in  wisdom,  finding  grace  with  all. 
The  maids  of  Nazareth,  as  they  trooped  to  fill 
Their  balanced  urns  beside  the  mountain  rill,  — 
The  gathered  matrons,  as  they  sat  and  spun,  — 
Spoke  in  soft  words  of  Joseph's  quiet  son. 
No  voice  had  reached  the  Galilean  vale 
Of  star-led  kings,  or  awe-struck  shepherd's  tale; 
In  the  meek,  studious  child  they  only  saw 
The  future  Rabbi,  learned  in  Israel's  law. 

So  grew  the  boy,  and  now  the  feast  was  near 
When  at  the  Holy  Place  the  tribes  appear. 
Scarce  had  the  home-bred  child  of  Nazareth  seen 
Beyond  the  hills  that  girt  the  village  green, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  257 

Save  when  at  midnight,  o'er  the  starlit  sands, 
Snatched  from  the  steel  of  Herod's  murdering  bands, 
A  babe,  close  folded  to  his  mother's  breast, 
Through  Edom's  wilds  he  sought  the  sheltering  West. 

Then  Joseph  spake  :  "  Thy  boy  hath   largely 

grown ; 

Weave  him  fine  raiment,  fitting  to  be  shown ; 
Fair  robes  beseem  the  pilgrim,  as  the  priest : 
Goes  he  not  with  us  to  the  holy  feast  ?  " 

And  Mary  culled  the  flaxen  fibres  white ; 
Till  eve  she  spun ;  she  spun  till  morning  light. 
The  thread  was  twined ;  its  parting  meshes  through 
Prom  hand  to  hand  her  restless  shuttle  flew, 
Till  the  full  web  was  wound  upon  the  beam ; 
Love's  curious  toil,  —  a  vest  without  a  seam ! 

They  reach  the  Holy  Place,  fulfil  the  days 
To  solemn  feasting  given,  and  grateful  praise. 
At  last  they  turn,  and  far  Moriah's  height 
Melts  in  the  southern  sky  and  fades  from  sight. 
All  day  the  dusky  caravan  has  flowed 
In  devious  trails  along  the  winding  road ; 
(For  many  a  step  their  homeward  path  attends, 
And  all  the  sons  of  Abraham  are  as  friends.) 
Evening  has  come,  —  the  hour  of  rest  and  joy,  — 
Hush !    Hush !    That  whisper,  —  "  Where  is  Mary's 
boy?" 

O  weary  hour !     O  aching  days  that  passed 
Filled  with  strange  fears  each  wilder  than  the  last,  — 
The  soldier's  lance,  the  fierce  centurion's  sword, 
The  crushing  wheels  that  whirl  some  Roman  lord, 
The  midnight  crypt  that  sucks  the  captive's  breath, 
The  blistering  sun  on  Hinnom's  vale  of  death ! 

Thrice  on  his  cheek  had  rained  the  morning  light; 
Thrico  on  his  lips  the  mildewed  kiss  of  night, 
17 


258  PICTURES  FROM 

Crouched  by  a  sheltering  column's  shining  plinth, 
Or  stretched  beneath  the  odorous  terebinth. 

At  last,  in  desperate  mood,  they  sought  once  more 
The  Temple's  porches,  searched  in  vain  before  ; 
They  found  him  seated  with  the  ancient  men,  — 
The  grim  old  rufflers  of  the  tongue  and  pen,  — 
Their  bald  heads  glistening  as  they  clustered  near, 
Their  gray  beards  slanting  as  they  turned  to  hear, 
Lost  in  half-envious  wonder  and  surprise 
That  lips  so  fresh  should  utter  words  so  wise. 

And  Mary  said,  —  as  one  who,  tried  too  long, 
Tells  all  her  grief  and  half  her  sense  of  wrong,  — 
"What  is  this  thoughtless  thing  which  thou  hast 

done? 
Lo,  we  have  sought  thee  sorrowing,  O  my  son !  " 

Few  words  he  spake,  and  scarce  of  filial  tone, 
Strange  words,  their  sense  a  mystery  yet  unknown ; 
Then  turned  with  them  and  left  the  holy  hill, 
To  all  their  mild  commands  obedient  still. 

The  tale  was  told  to  Nazareth's  sober  men, 
And  Nazareth's  matrons  told  it  oft  again, 
The  maids  retold  it  at  the  fountain's  side, 
The  youthful  shepherds  doubted  or  denied ; 
It  passed  around  among  the  listening  friends, 
With  all  that  fancy  adds  and  fiction  lends, 
Till  newer  marvels  dimmed  the  young  renown 
Of  Joseph's  son,  who  talked  the  Rabbis  down. 

But  Mary,  faithful  to  its  lightest  word, 
Kept  in  her  heart  the  sayings  she  had  heard, 
Till  the  dread  morning  rent  the  Temple's  veil, 
And  shuddering  earth  confirmed  the  wondrous  tale. 

Youth  fades;  love  droops;  the  leaves  of  friendship 

fall; 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  259 


THE  DISAPPOINTED   STATESMAN. 

of  all   statesmen   is   his   country's 

pride, 
Her  councils7  prompter  and  her  leaders' 

guide  ? 

He  speaks ;  the  nation  holds  its  breath  to  hear ; 
He  nods,  and  shakes  the  sunset  hemisphere. 
Born  where  the  primal  fount  of  Nature  springs 
By  the  rude  cradles  of  her  throneless  kings, 
In  his  proud  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 
By  his  own  lips  her  Monarch  she  proclaims. 

Why  name  his  countless  triumphs,  whom  to  meet 
Is  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat? 
The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls  and  strife, 
Who  fire  one  shot,  and  finish  with  the  knife, 
Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in  their  shame, 
Ground  their  hacked  blades  to  strike  at  meaner  game. 
The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 
Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes  obey, 
Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 
Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 
Flung  his  rash  gauntlet  on  the  startled  floor, 
Met  the  all-conquering,  fought — and  ruled  no  more. 

See  where  he  moves,  what  eager  crowds  attend ! 
What  shouts  of  thronging  multitudes  ascend  ! 
If  this  is  life,  —  to  mark  with  every  hour 
The  purple  deepening  in  his  robes  of  power, 
To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honor  fall 
Thick  at  his  feet,  and  choose  among  them  all, 
To  hear  the  sounds  that  shape  his  spreading  name 
Peal  through  the  myriad  organ-stops  of  fame, 


200  PICTURES  FROM 

Stamp  the  lone  isle  that  spots  the  seaman's  chart, 
And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart, 
To  count  as  peers  the  few  supremely  wise 
Who  mark  their  planet  in  the  angels'  eyes,  — 
If  this  is  life  — 

What  savage  man  is  he 
Who  strides  alone  beside  the  sounding  sea  ? 
Alone  he  wanders  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar ; 
Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy-browed 
As  on  the  waves  yon  tempest-brooding  cloud, 
Heaves  from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing  sigh, 
Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded  sky. 

Ask  him  his  griefs ;  what  midnight  demons  plough 
The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow ; 
Unlock  those  marble  lips,  and  bid  them  speak 
The  mystery  freezing  in  his  bloodless  cheek. 

His  secret  ?     Hid  beneath  a  flimsy  word ; 
One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard ; 
And  thus  it  spake  :   "  Behold  yon  gilded  chair, 
The  world  's  one  vacant  throne,  —  thy  place  is 
there ! " 

Ah,  fatal  dream  !     What  warning  spectres  meet 
In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat ! 
Yet  still  the  Tempter  murmurs  in  his  ear 
The  maddening  taunt  he  cannot  choose  but  hear : 
"  Meanest  of  slaves,  by  Gods  and  men  accurst, 
He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first ! 
Climb  with  bold  front  the  ladder's  topmost  round, 
Or  chain  th~  creeping  footsteps  to  the  ground ! " 

Illustrious  Dupe  !     Have  those  majestic  eyes 
Lost  their  proud  fire  for  such  a  vulgar  prize  ? 
Art  thou  the  last  of  all  mankind  to  know 
That  party-fights  are  won  by  aiming  low  ? 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  *6i 

Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal  sign, 
That  party -hirelings  hate  a  look  like  thine  ? 
Shake  from  thy  sense  the  wild  delusive  dream ! 
Without  the  purple,  art  thou  not  supreme  ? 
And  soothed  by  love  unbought,  thy  heart  shall  own 
A  nation's  homage  nobler  than  its  throne  ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STAES. 

f1  S  man's  the  only  throbbing  heart  that  hides 
The  silent  spring  that  feeds  its  whispering 

tides  ? 

Speak  from  thy  caverns,  mystery-breed 
ing  Earth, 

Tell  the  half-hinted  story  of  thy  birth, 
And  calm  the  noisy  champions  who  have  thrown 
The  book  of  types  against  the  book  of  stone ! 

Have  ye  not  secrets,  ye  refulgent  spheres, 
No  sleepless  listener  of  the  starlight  hears  ? 
In  vain  the  sweeping  equatorial  pries 
Through  every  world-sown  corner  of  the  skies, 
To  the  far  orb  that  so  remotely  strays 
Our  midnight  darkness  is  its  noonday  blaze ; 
In  vain  the  climbing  soul  of  creeping  man 
Metes  out  the  heavenly  concave  with  a  span, 
Tracks  into  space  the  long-lost  meteor's  trail, 
And  weighs  an  unseen  planet  in  the  scale ; 
Still  o'er  their  doubts  the  wan-eyed  watchers  sigh, 
And  Science  lifts  her  still  unanswered  cry  : 
"  Are  all  these  worlds,  that  speed  their  circling  flight, 
Dumb,  vacant,  soulless,  —  bawbles  of  the  night  ? 


162  PICTURES  FROM 

Warmed  with  God's  smile  and  wafted  by  his  breath, 
To  weave  in  ceaseless  round  the  dance  of  Death  1 
Or  rolls  a  sphere  in  each  expanding  zone, 
Crowned  with  a  life  as  varied  as  our  own  1 " 

MAKER  of  earth  and  stars  !     If  thou  hast  taught 
By  what  thy  voice  hath  spoke,  thy  hand  hath  wrought, 
By  all  that  Science  proves,  or  guesses  true, 
More  than  thy  Poet  dreamed,  thy  prophet  knew,  — 
The  heavens  still  bow  in  darkness  at  thy  feet, 
And  shadows  veil  thy  cloud-pavilioned  seat ! 

Not  for  ourselves  we  ask  thee  to  reveal 
One  awful  word  beneath  the  future's  seal ; 
What  thou  shalt  tell  us,  grant  us  strength  to  bear; 
What  thou  withholdest  is  thy  single  care. 
Not  for  ourselves  ;  the  present  clings  too  fast, 
Moored  to  the  mighty  anchors  of  the  past ; 
But  when,  with  angry  snap,  some  cable  parts, 
The  sound  re-echoing  in  our  startled  hearts,  — 
When,  through   the  wall   that  clasps  the  harbor 

round, 

And  shuts  the  raving  ocean  from  its  bound, 
Shattered  and  rent  by  sacrilegious  hands, 
The  first  mad  billow  leaps  upon  the  sands,  — 
Then  to  the  Future's  awful  page  we  turn, 
And  what  we  question  hardly  dare  to  learn. 

Still  let  us  hope !  for  while  we  seem  to  tread 
The  time-worn  pathway  of  the  nations  dead, 
Though  Sparta  laughs  at  all  our  warlike  deeds, 
And  buried  Athens  claims  our  stolen  creeds, 
Though  Rome,  a  spectre  on  her  broken  throne, 
Beholds  our  eagle  and  recalls  her  own, 
Though  England  fling  her  pennons  on  the  breeze 
And  reign  before  us  Mistress  of  the  seas,  — 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS.  263 

While  calm-eyed  History  tracks  us  circling  round 
Fate's  iron  pillar  where  they  all  were  bound, 
.She  sees  new  beacons  crowned  with  brighter  flame 
Than  the  old  watch-fires,  like,  but  not  the  same ! 
Still  in  our  path  a  larger  curve  she  finds, 
The  spiral  widening  as  the  chain  unwinds ! 
No  shameless  haste  shall  spot  with  bandit-crime 
Our  destined  empire  snatched  before  its  time. 
Wait,  —  wait,  undoubting,  for  the  winds  have  caught 
From  our  bold  speech  the  heritage  of  thought ; 
No  marble  form  that  sculptured  truth  can  wear 
Vies  with  the  image  shaped  in  viewless  air ; 
And  thought  unfettered  grows  through  speech  to 

deeds, 

As  the  broad  forest  marches  in  its  seeds. 
What  though  we  perish  ere  the  day  is  won  ? 
Enough  to  see  its  glorious  work  begun ! 
The  thistle  falls  before  a  trampling  clown, 
But  who  can  chain  the  flying  thistle-down  ? 
Wait  while  the  fiery  seeds  of  freedom  fly, 
The  prairie  blazes  when  the  grass  is  dry ! 

What  arms  might  ravish,  leave  to  peaceful  arts, 
Wisdom  and  love  shall  win  the  roughest  hearts ; 
So  shall  the  angel  who  has  closed  for  man. 
The  blissful  garden  since  his  woes  began 
Swing  wide  the  golden  portals  of  the  West, 
And  Eden's  secret  stand  at  length  confessed ! 


TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN. 
TO   GOVERNOR   SWAIN. 


EAE  GOVERNOR,  if  my  skiff  might 

brave 

The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 
The  mountain   stream  that   loops  and 

swerves 

Through  my  broad  meadow's  channelled  curves 
Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  Sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  Thee. 

It  may  not  be ;  too  long  the  track 

To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 

The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 

Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 

The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 

In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 

While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  fills 

The  stream  that  scarfs  my  spruce-clad  hills ; 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 

Long  ere  my  barn-yard  chanticleer  ; 

Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue 

While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be ;  O  would  it  might, 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night ! 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife,  — • 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 
The  very  bank  of  language  broke,  — 


TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN.  265 

Such  deeds,  that  Laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side ; 
While  Time,  caught  fast  in  pleasure's  chain, 
His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full,  —  but  not  of  sand ! 

It  may  not  be ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay ; 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 

They  raise  along  my  threatened  path ; 

The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 

The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 

The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 

The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 

Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 

They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 

Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 

My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 

Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free  !  — 

And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee ! 

PlITSFIELD,   1851. 


a66  TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND. 


TO   AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND. 

HE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 
Its  living  germ  has  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from  common  blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 

Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower ; 

Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  has  flown, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 

The  tepid  waves  of  Pontchartrain, 

Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 

Katahdin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 

Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The  life-blood  drawn  from  English  veins, 
Still  bearing  wheresoe'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged  by  space,  unwronged  by  time, 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime ! 

1852. 


VIGNETTES.  167 

VIGNETTES. 

1853. 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH. 

OME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 
O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown ; 
Hark !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousands  rills ;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 

With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 
Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 

They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark,  —  a  pygmy's  ship ; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls ; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 


268  VIGNETTES. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between ; 

Without  an  oar  we  glide ; 
The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

—  Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well, 
And  let  us  read  and  dream 

We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 
And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies ; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung ; 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 
And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 

With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 
And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  !  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first ; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 
Her  morning  hand  she  tried  ; 

Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 
And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 
Her  elm  with  hanging  spray ; 

She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 
Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 


VIGNETTES.  269 

Look  on  the  forests'  ancient  kings, 

The  hemlock's  towering  pride  : 
Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 

And  fell  before  it  died. 

Nor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 

And  slights  our  grassy  plain ; 
For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 

Look  on  its  broidered  train ; 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 

Brands  of  the  noontide  beam ; 
The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 

Its  double  in  the  stream, 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 

Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 
Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 

In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark !  and  hark !  the  woodland  rings ; 

There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul ; 
And  look !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole ! 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky ; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing,  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen 


ayo  VIGNETTES. 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 
Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 

Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint ! 
Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

Yet  think  not  so  ;  Old  England's  blood 
Runs  warm  in  English  veins ; 

But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 
Its  better  life  remains  : 

Our  children  know  each  wild-wood  smell, 

The  bayberry  and  the  fern, 
The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 

Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 

Be  patient !     On  the  breathing  page 
Still  pants  our  hurried  past ; 

Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 
The  poet  comes  the  last ! 

Though  still  the  lark-voiced  matins  ring 
The  world  has  known  so  long ; 

The  wood-thrush  of  the  West  shall  sing 
Earth's  last  sweet  even-song  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE. 


HINE  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 

That  strew  the  mourning  skies ; 
Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night 
The  harp  of  Erin  lies. 


VIGNETTES.  271 

What  though  her  thousand  years  have  past 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings,  — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings. 

Fling  o'er  his  mound,  ye  star-lit  bowers, 

The  balmiest  wreaths  ye  wear, 
Whose  breath  has  lent  your  earth-born  flower* 

Heaven's  own  ambrosial  air. 

Breathe,  bird  of  night,  thy  softest  tone, 

By  shadowy  grove  and  rill ; 
Thy  song  will  soothe  us  while  we  own 

That  his  was  sweeter  still. 

Stay,  pitying  Time,  thy  foot  for  him 

Who  gave  thee  swifter  wings, 
Nor  let  thine  envious  shadow  dim 

The  light  his  glory  flings. 

If  in  his  cheek  unholy  blood 

Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 
'T  was  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 

That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower. 

Take  him,  kind  mother,  to  thy  breast, 

Who  loved  thy  smiles  so  well, 
And  spread  thy  mantle  o'er  his  rest 

Of  rose  and  asphodel. 

—  The  bark  has  sailed  the  midnight  sea, 

The  sea  without  a  shore, 
That  waved  its  parting  sign  to  thee,  — 

"  A  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  !  " 


VIGNETTES. 

And  thine,  long  lingering  on  the  strand, 
Its  bright-hued  streamers  furled, 

Was  loosed  by  age,  with  trembling  hand, 
To  seek  the  silent  world. 

Not  silent !  no,  the  radiant  stars 

Still  singing  as  they  sliine, 
Unheard  through  earth's  imprisoning  bars, 

Have  voices  sweet  as  thine. 

Wake,  then,  in  happier  realms  above, 

The  songs  of  bygone  years, 
Till  angels  learn  those  airs  of  love 

That  ravished  mortal  ears  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON  KEATS. 
"  Purpureos  spargam  flores." 


HE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave 
Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 
Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 
Her  store  of  slender  violets ; 
Though  all  the  Gods  their  garlands  shower, 
I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 
—  Alas  !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring, 
That  opens  in  my  Northern  spring  ? 
The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 
So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child ; 
Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 
Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks ; 


VIGNETTES.  273 

The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 

The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 

No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 

The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis  ; 

Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 

In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow ; 

The  grass  has  quenched  my  white-rayed  gem, 

The  flowering  «  Star  of  Bethlehem," 

Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 

And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 

Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 

And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 

Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 

Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 

—  Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 
When  snows  were  melting  down  the  vale, 
And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 

And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, 
And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 
I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 
That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 
And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 
Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 
Meek  child  of  earth !  thou  wilt  not  shame 
The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name ; 
The  God  of  music  gave  thee  birth, 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacinthus  lay. 

—  The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave ! 

if 


a74          VIGNETTES. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY. 

NE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacher 
ous  bay ; 
On  comes  the  blast ;  too  daring  bark, 

beware ! 

The  cloud  has  clasped  her ;  lo  !  it  melts  away ; 
The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is  there. 

Morning  :  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea ; 

Midnight :  with  lamps  the  long  verandah  burns ; 
Come,  wandering  sail,  they  watch,  they  burn  for  thee  I 

Suns  come  and  go,  alas !  no  bark  returns. 

And  feet  are  thronging  on  the  pebbly  sands, 
And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves, 

Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 

The  shapes  uplifted  from  their  coral  graves. 

Vainly  they  seek  ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er ; 

The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their  hanging  locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the  shore 

To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 

But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing  wail, 

"  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters,  yield  1 " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised  the  pale  burden  on  his  level  shield. 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  retire ; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim ; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath  of 
flame. 


VIGNETTES.  275 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return ; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson  shroud ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn ; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 

Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying  heart, 

Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue-vaulted  skies, 
Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 

Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  passing  sigh, 
O  happier  Christian,  while  thine  eye  grows  dim,  — 

In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him  1 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES 


S  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mariner's 

dream ; 

As  the  footstep  of  Spring  on  the  ice- 
girdled  stream, 
There  comes  a  soft  footstep,  a  whisper,  to  me,  — 
The  vision  is  over,  —  the  rivulet  free  J 

We  have  trod  from  the  threshold  of  turbulent  March, 
Till  the  green  scarf  of  April  is  hung  on  the  larch, 
And  down  the  bright  hill-side  that  welcomes  the  day, 
We  hear  the  warm  panting  of  beautiful  May. 

We  will  part  before  Summer  has  opened  her  wing, 
And  the  bosom  of  June  swells  the  bodice  of  Spring, 
While  the  hope  of  the  season  lies  fresh  in  the  bud, 
And  the  young  life  of  Nature  runs  warm  in  our  blood. 


a76  VIGNETTES. 

It  is  but  a  word,  and  the  chain  is  unbound, 
The  bracelet  of  steel  drops  unclasped  to  the  ground ; 
No  hand  shall  replace  it,  —  it  rests  where  it  fell,  — 
It  is  but  one  word  that  we  all  know  too  well. 

Yet  the  hawk  with  the  wildness  untamed  in  his  eye, 
If  you  free  him,  stares  round  ere  he  springs  to  the 

sky; 

The  slave  whom  no  longer  his  fetters  restrain 
Will  turn  for  a  moment  and  look  at  his  chain. 

Our  parting  is  not  as  the  friendship  of  years, 
That  chokes  with  the  blessing  it  speaks  through  its 

tears; 

We  have  walked  in  a  garden,  and,  looking  around, 
Have  plucked  a  few  leaves  from  the  myrtles  we 

found. 

But  now  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  we  stand, 
And  the  moment  has  come  for  unclasping  the  hand ; 
Will  you  drop  it  like  lead,  and  in  silence  retreat 
Like  the  twenty  crushed  forms  from  an  omnibus 
seat  ? 

Nay!   hold  it  one  moment, — the   last  we  may 

share,  — 

I  stretch  it  in  kindness,  and  not  for  my  fare ; 
You  may  pass  through  the  doorway  in  rank  or  in  file, 
If  your  ticket  from  Nature  is  stamped  with  a  smile. 

For  the  sweetest  of  smiles  is  the  smile  as  we  part, 
WTien  the  light  round  the  lips  is  a  ray  from  the 

heart; 

And  lest  a  stray  tear  from  its  fountain  might  swell, 
We  will  seal  the  bright  spring  with  a  quiet  farewell. 


VIGNETTES.  277 

THE   HUDSON. 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  AT  ALBANY. 

WAS  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came 

with  its  dawn, 

Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day- 
star  was  drawn ; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows  grew  long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it  in  song. 

"  There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of  the 

west,"  — 

She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her  breast ; 
"  Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers  have  played ; 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are  laid." 

I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing  stream 
With  the  many-hued  pencil  of  infancy's  dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle-crowned  Rhine, 
Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and  change 

it  to  wine; 

I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they  glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their  side. 

But  my  heart  would  still  yearn  for  the  sound  of 

the  waves 

That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers'  graves ; 
If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a  tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it,  —  no  blush  for  it  here  1 


278       -  A  POEM. 

Earewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of  the  West  I 
I  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its  breast ; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow  cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters  have  rolled ! 

DECEMBER,  1854. 


A  POEM 

FOB   THE   MEETING   OF   THE  AMERICAN  MEDICAL 
ASSOCIATION   AT    NEW    YORK, 

MAY  5,  1853. 

HOLD  a  letter  in  my  hand,  — 

A  flattering  letter — more 's  the  pity, — 
By  some  contriving  junto  planned, 

And  signed  per  order  of  Committee  ; 
It  touches  every  tenderest  spot,  — 

My  patriotic  predilections, 
My  well  known  —  something  —  don't  ask  what, 
My  poor  old  songs,  my  kind  affections. 

They  make  a  feast  on  Thursday  next, 

And  hope  to  make  the  feasters  merry ; 
They  own  they  're  something  more  perplexed 

For  poets  than  for  port  and  sherry ;  — 
They  want  the  men  of —  (word  torn  out) ; 

Our  friends  will  come  with  anxious  faces 
(To  see  our  blankets  off,  no  doubt, 

And  trot  us  out  and  show  our  paces). 


A  POEM.  279 

They  hint  that  papers  by  the  score 

Are  rather  musty  kind  of  rations ; 
They  don't  exactly  mean  a  bore, 

But  only  trying  to  the  patience ; 
That  such  as  —  you  know  who  I  mean  — 

Distinguished  for  their — what  d'  ye  call  'em— 
Should  bring  the  dews  of  Hippo  crene 

To  sprinkle  on  the  faces  solemn. 

—  The  same  old  story  ;  that 's  the  chaff 

To  catch  the  birds  that  sing  the  ditties ; 
Upon  my  soul,  it  makes  me  laugh 

To  read  these  letters  from  Committees  ! 
They  're  all  so  loving  and  so  fair,  — 

All  for  your  sake  such  kind  compunction,  — 
'T  would  save  your  carriage  half  its  wear 

To  touch  its  wheels  with  such  an  unction ! 

Why,  who  am  I,  to  lift  me  here 

And  beg  such  learned  folk  to  listen,  — 
To  ask  a  smile,  or  coax  a  tear 

Beneath  these  stoic  lids  to  glisten  *? 
As  well  might  some  arterial  thread 

Ask  the  whole  frame  to  feel  it  gushing, 
While  throbbing  fierce  from  heel  to  head 

The  vast  aortic  tide  was  rushing. 

As  well  some  hair-like  nerve  might  strain 

To  set  its  special  streamlet  going, 
While  through  the  myriad-channelled  brain 

The  burning  flood  of  thought  was  flowing ; 
Or  trembling  fibre  strive  to  keep 

The  springing  haunches  gathered  shorter, 
While  the  scourged  racer,  leap  on  leap, 

Was  stretching  through  the  last  hot  quarter ! 


ago  A  POEM. 

Ah  me !  you  take  the  bud  that  came 

Self-sown  in  your  poor  garden's  borders, 
And  hand  it  to  the  stately  dame 

That  florists  breed  for,  all  she  orders ; 
She  thanks  you  —  it  was  kindly  meant  — 

(A  pale  affair,  not  worth  the  keeping,)  — 
Good  morning ;  —  and  your  bud  is  sent 

To  join  the  tea-leaves  used  for  sweeping. 

Not  always  so,  kind  hearts  and  true,  — 

For  such  I  know  are  round  me  beating ; 
Is  not  the  bud  I  offer  you,  — 

Fresh  gathered  for  the  hour  of  meeting,  — 
Pale  though  its  outer  leaves  may  be, 

Rose-red  in  all  its  inner  petals, 
Where  the  warm  life  we  cannot  see  — 

The  life  of  love  that  gave  it  —  settles  ? 

We  meet  from  regions  far  away, 

Like  rills  from  distant  mountains  streaming ; 
The  sun  is  on  Francisco's  bay, 

O'er  Chesapeake  the  lighthouse  gleaming ; 
While  summer  girds  the  still  bayou 

In  chains  of  bloom,  her  bridal  token, 
Monadnock  sees  the  sky  grow  blue, 

His  crystal  bracelet  yet  unbroken. 

Yet  Nature  bears  the  self-same  heart 

Beneath  her  russet-mantled  bosom, 
As  where  with  burning  lips  apart 

She  breathes,  and  white  magnolias  blossom ; 
The  self-same  founts  her  chalice  fill 

With  showery  sunlight  running  over, 
On  fiery  plain  and  frozen  hill, 

On  myrtle-beds  and  fields  of  clover. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  281 

I  give  you  Home  !  its  crossing  lines 

United  in  one  golden  suture, 
And  showing  every  day  that  shines 

The  present  growing  to  the  future,  — 
A  flag  that  bears  a  hundred  stars, 

In  one  bright  ring,  with  love  for  centre, 
Fenced  round  with  white  and  crimson  bars, 

No  prowling  treason  dares  to  enter ! 

O  brothers,  home  may  be  a  word 

To  make  affection's  living  treasure  — 
The  wave  an  angel  might  have  stirred  - — 

A  stagnant  pool  of  selfish  pleasure ; 
HOME  !     It  is  where  the  day-star  springs 

And  where  the  evening  sun  reposes, 
Where'er  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings, 

From  northern  pines  to  southern  roses ! 


THE  NEW  EDEN. 

MEETING    OF    THE     BERKSHIRE     HORTICULTURAL 
SOCIETY,    AT    STOCKBRIDGE, 

SEPT.  13,  1854. 


CARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 
Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving 

bow, 

When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 
The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's  plough. 


a  THE  NEW  EDEN. 

Then  sprang  from  many  a  rock-strewn  field 
The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 

Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 
To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 

The  hill-sides  gleamed  with  golden  maize. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistening  here  and  there ; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core, 

Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 
To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

—  But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 
We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  ice-clad  heart. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  283 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms  to  her  children's  patient  wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 

Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  Juno 

Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 
Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 

And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings ; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 
And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 

Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  rustling  stone, 

There  venturous  boyhood  learned  to  climb,  — 

How  well  the  early  graft  was  known 
Whose  fruit  was  ripe  ere  harvest-time ! 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

With  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled  and  splashed  witf-  streak  and  spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  bwells  ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 
Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 

Her  deep-cleft  bosom  scarfed  with  green,  — 
Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


184  THE  NEW  EDEN. 

—  When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell, 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight ; 
These  left  the  garden,  —  these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 
These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung : 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-Dam*? :"  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 


—  What  though  in  some  unmoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  285 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair, 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast ! 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 
Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 

And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning  plain ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours, 

Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  hoarded  springs, 
And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 
The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 

Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 
To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 
Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest ; 

It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 
It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest 


*86  A  SENTIMENT. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate,  — 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall ! 


A   SENTIMENT. 

TRIPLE  health  to  Friendship,  Science, 

Art, 

From  heads  and  hands  that  own  a  com 
mon  heart ! 
Each  in  its  turn  the  others'  willing  slave,  — 
Each  in  its  season  strong  to  heal  and  save. 

Friendship's  blind  service,  in  the  hour  of  need, 
Wipes  the  pale  face  —  and  lets  the  victim  bleed. 
Science  must  stop  to  reason  and  explain ; 
ART  claps  his  finger  on  the  streaming  vein. 

But  Art's  brief  memory  fails  the  hand  at  last ; 
Then  SCIENCE  lifts  the  flambeau  of  the  past. 
When  both  their  equal  impotence  deplore, — 
When  Learning  sighs,  and  Skill  can  do  no  more,  — 
The  tear  of  FRIENDSHIP  pours  its  heavenly  balm, 
And  soothes  the  pang  no  anodyne  may  calm  1 

May  i,  1855. 


SEMICENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION.    287 


SEMICENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION   OF 
THE   NEW  ENGLAND    SOCIETY, 

NEW   YORK,    DEC.    22,    1855. 


EW  England,  we  love  thee ;  no  time  can 

erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile 

on  thy  face. 

T  is  the  mother's  fond  look  of  affection  and  pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of  his  bride. 

His  bride  may  be  fresher  in  beauty's  young  flower ; 
She  may  blaze  in  the  jewels  she  brings  with  her 

dower. 

But  passion  must  chill  in  Time's  pitiless  blast ; 
The  one  that  first  loved  us  will  love  to  the  last. 

You  have  left  the  dear  land  of  the  lake  and  the 

hill, 

But  its  winds  and  its  waters  will  talk  with  you  still. 
"  Forget  not,"  they  whisper,   "  your  love  is  our 

debt," 
And  echo  breathes  softly,  "  We  never  forget." 

The  banquet's  gay  splendors  are  gleaming  around, 
But  your  hearts  have  flown  back  o'er  the  waves  of 

the  Sound ; 
They  have  found  the  brown  home  where  their  pulses 

were  born ; 
They  are  throbbing  their  way  through  the  trees  and 

the  corn. 


288    SEMICENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 

There  are  roofs  you  remember,  —  their  glory  Is  fled ; 
There  are  mounds  in  the  church-yard,  —  one  sigh 

for  the  dead. 
There  are  wrecks,  there  are  ruins,  all  scattered 

around ; 
But  Earth  has  no  spot  like  that  corner  of  ground. 

Come,  let  us  be  cheerful,  —  remember  last  night, 
How  they  cheered  us,  and  —  never  mind  —  meant 

it  all  right ; 

To-night,  we  harm  nothing, — we  love  in  the  lump; 
Here 's  a  bumper  to  Maine,  in  the  juice  of  the 

pump ! 

Here  's  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever  they  be, 
Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  liberty-tree ; 
We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms  and  fruit, 
But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round  its  root. 

We  should  like  to  talk  big ;  it 's  a  kind  of  a  right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got  loose  and  the  waistband 

grown  tight ; 

But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked  to  her  beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost,  no  biddy  should  crow. 

Enough  1     There  are  gentlemen  waiting  to  talk, 
Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower  to  the  stalk. 
Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  befall ; 
God  bless  all  her  children !    Good  night  to  you  all ! 


FOR   WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY.    289 


ODE    FOR    WASHINGTON'S    BIRTHDAY, 

CELEBRATION  OP  THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION. 

FEBRUARY  zz,  1856. 

ELCOME  to  the  day  returning, 

Dearer  still  as  ages  flow, 
While  the  torch  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Long  as  Freedom's  altars  glow  I 
See  the  hero  whom  it  gave  us 

Slumbering  on  a  mother's  breast ; 
For  the  arm  he  stretched  to  save  us, 
Be  its  morn  forever  blest ! 

Hear  the  tale  of  youthful  glory, 

While  of  Britain's  rescued  band 
Friend  and  foe  repeat  the  story, 

Spread  his  fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Where  the  red  cross,  proudly  streaming, 

Flaps  above  the  frigate's  deck, 
Where  the  golden  lilies,  gleaming, 

Star  the  watch-towers  of  Quebec. 

Look !     The  shadow  on  the  dial 

Marks  the  hour  of  deadlier  strife ; 
Days  of  terror,  years  of  trial, 

Scourge  a  nation  into  life. 
Lo,  the  youth,  become  her  leader ! 

All  her  baffled  tyrants  yield ; 
Through  his  arm  the  Lord  hath  freed  her ; 

Crown  him  on  the  tented  field ! 
19 


290    FOR   WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Vain  is  Empire's  mad  temptation ! 

Not  for  him  an  earthly  crown ! 
He  whose  sword  hath  freed  a  nation ! 

Strikes  the  offered  sceptre  down. 
See  the  throneless  Conqueror  seated, 

Ruler  by  a  people's  choice ; 
See  the  Patriot's  task  completed  ; 

Hear  the  Father's  dying  voice ! 

"  By  the  name  that  you  inherit, 

By  the  sufferings  you  recall, 
Cherish  the  fraternal  spirit ; 

Love  your  country  first  of  all ! 
Listen  not  to  idle  questions 

If  its  bands  may  be  untied ; 
Doubt  the  patriot  whose  suggestions 

Strive  a  nation  to  divide !  " 

Father !     We,  whose  ears  have  tingled 

With  the  discord-notes  of  shame,  — 
We,  whose  sires  their  blood  have  mingled 

In  the  battle's  thunder-flame,  — 
Gathering,  while  this  holy  morning 

Lights  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Hear  thy  counsel,  heed  thy  warning ; 

Trust  us,  while  we  honor  thee  1 


CLASS   OF  '29.  29i 

CLASS    OF   '29. 

FOR    THURSDAY,    NOVEMBER    6,    1856. 

OU'LL  believe  me,   dear  boys,  'tis  a 

pleasure  to  rise 
With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  darling 

old  eyes, 

To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear  the  same  tone 
Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years  that  have 
flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in  the  wall, 
My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight  of  you  all ; 
If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on  the  sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in  my  hand. 

There  are  noontides  of  autumn,  when  summer  re 
turns, 

Though  the  leaves  are  all  garnered  and  sealed  in 
their  urns, 

And  the  bird  on  his  perch  that  was  silent  so  long 

Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks  into  song. 

We  have  caged  the  young  birds  of  our  beautiful  June : 
Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their  voices  in  tune ; 
One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like  these, 
And  they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the  green-growing  trees. 

The  voices  of  morning !     How  sweet  is  their  thrill 
When  the  shadows  have  turned,  and  the  evening 

grows  still ! 

The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with  age, 
But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twentieth  page ! 


291     MEETING   OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB. 

Look  off  from  your  goblet  and  up  from  your  plate, 
Come,  take  the  last  journal  and  glance  at  its  date,  — 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say  and  should  do, 
If  the  6  were  a  9,  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah  no  !     For  the  shapes  that  would  meet  with  ua 

here 

From  the  far  land  of  shadows  are  ever  too  dear ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride  and  its 

charms, 
"We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we  clasped  in  our 

arms. 

A  health  to  our  future,  —  a  sigh  for  our  past ! 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the  last : 
And  for  all  the  base  lies  that  the  almanacs  hold, 
While  we  Ve  youth  in  our  hearts,  we  can  never 
grow  old. 


FOR   THE  MEETING   OF   THE  BUKNS 
CLUB. 

1856. 

HE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder ; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder  ; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks ; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned ; 
Wachusett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks ; 
Monadnock  to  Ben  Lomond ! 


MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB.    293 

Though  years  have  clipped  the  eagle's  plume 

That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet, 
The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 

The  silver  mists  lie  on  it ; 
With  tartan  kilt  and  philibeg, 

What  stride  was  ever  bolder 
Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 

Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder  1 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  flowing ; 
The  hunts  where  gallant  hearts  were  game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The  raid  that  swooped  with  sword  and  flame, 

Give  place  to  "  law  and  order." 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing ; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning 
While  fluttering  round  the  beacon-light,  — 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning  ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story. 


294  FOR    THE  BURNS 

'T  is  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together ; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isles, 

Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether ; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing  words, 

That  set  the  pulses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 

Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle, 
We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ! 


FOR    THE    BURNS    CENTENNIAL    CELE 
BRATION. 

JANUARY  25,   1859. 

IS  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating,  — 
Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  check 
In  light  and  flame  repeating  ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 

One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 
As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 

Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean; 


CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION.        295 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 

Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river, 
The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 

With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 

The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 
And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soul, 

We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  nights 

With  Corydon  and  Phillis,  — 
While  Wolfe  was  climbing  Abraham's  heights 

To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  — 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 

The  babe  beneath  the  sheiling, 
Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 

Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 

And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 
Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blend* 

With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 

We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 

Though  never  tone  so  tender ; 
We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 

His  wasteful  self-surrender. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine,  — 
His  Muse  was  born  of  woman,  — 

His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 
Was  ever  heart  more  human  ? 


296    BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTLE. 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this  : 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth  and  want,  through  woe  and  blis% 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature  ! 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted ; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted ! 

Ay  !  Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 

Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 
His  virtues,  frailties,  HE  may  scan, 

Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 

Of  him,  though  dead,  undying ; 
Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 

Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story,  — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory ! 


BIETHDAY   OF   DANIEL   WEBSTER. 
JANUARY  18,  1856. 


HEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show ! 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER.    a97 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops ; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot ; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 

Some  larger  soul  hath  lived  and  wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 

The  boundless  realms  of  deed  and  thought,  •— 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by : 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines ; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain ; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines ; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes :  a  boy  appears ; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun, 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust ;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid 
His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 

And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 


298    BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow ;  behold ! 

Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew, 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived ;  in  peace  he  died ; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 

Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 
And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 


MEETING   OF  THE  ALUMNI.          299 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids ; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep  ! 


MEETING   OF   THE   ALUMNI   OF  HAR 
VARD    COLLEGE. 

1857. 

THANK  you,  MR.  PRESIDENT,  you  've 

kindly  broke  the  ice ; 
Virtue  should  always  be  the  first,  —  I  'm 

only  SECOND  VICE  — 
(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that 's  made  to 

hold  its  jaw 

Till  some  old  file  has  played  away  upon  an  ancient 
saw.) 

Sweet  brothers  by  the  Mother's  side,  the  babes  of 

days  gone  by, 
All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose  milk  is 

never  dry, 
We  come  again,  like  half-grown  boys,  and  gather 

at  her  beck 
About  her  knees,  and  on  her  lap,  and  clinging 

round  her  neck. 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in  her  ancient 

chair, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  red  and  green  she  alwaya 

loved  to  wear. 


3oo 


MEETING   OF   THE  ALUMNI 


Her  eye  has  all  its  radiant  youth,  her  cheek  its 

morning  flame ; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we  go,  hers  flourish  still  the  same. 

"We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour,  and  far 

away  we  've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some  lingering 

in  the  shade ; 
And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down  where 

darker  shadows  fall,  — 
Dear  as  her  loving  voice  may  be,  they  cannot  hear 

its  call. 

What  miles  we  Ve  travelled  since  we  shook  the 
dew-drops  from  our  shoes 

We  gathered  on  this  classic  green,  so  famed  for 
heavy  dues ! 

How  many  boys  have  joined  the  game,  how  many 
slipped  away, 

Since  we  Ve  been  running  up  and  down,  and  hav 
ing  out  our  play ! 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief,  and  one 

with  gown  and  band, 
One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  digging  in  the 

sand, 
One  flying  paper  kites  on  change,  one  planting 

little  pills, — 
The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well  known  as 

little  bills. 

What  maidens  met  us  on  our  way,  and  clasped  us 

hand  in  hand ! 
What  cherubs,  —  not  the  legless  kind,  that  fly,  but 

never  stand ! 


OF  HARVARD    COLLEGE.  301 

How  many  a  youthful  head  we  've  seen  put  on  its 
silver  crown  ! 

What  sudden  changes  back  again  to  youth's  em 
purpled  brown  ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and  broader 

lights  have  shone, 
Since  others  lit  their  midnight  lamps  where  once 

we  trimmed  our  own ; 
A  thousand  trains  that  flap  the  sky  with  flags  of 

rushing  fire, 
And,  throbbing  in  the  Thunderer's  hand,  Thought's 

miliion-chorded  lyre. 

We  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly  beyond  the 

mountain  bars, 
Till,  glittering  o'er  the  Western  wave,  they  joined 

the  setting  stars ; 
And  ocean  trodden  into  paths  that  trampling  giants 

ford, 
To  find  the  planet's  vertebrae  and  sink  its  spinal 

cord. 

We  've  tried  reform,  —  and  chloroform,  —  and  both 
have  turned  our  brain ; 

When  France  called  up  the  photograph,  we  roused 
the  foe  to  pain ; 

Just  so  those  earlier  sages  shared  the  chaplet  of  re 
nown,  — 

Hers  sent  a  bladder  to  the  clouds,  ours  brought 
their  lightning  down. 

We  'vc  seen  the  little  tricks  of  life,  its  varnish  and 

veneer, 
Its  stucco-fronts  of  character  flake  off  and  disappear, 


3o2          MEETING   OF  THE  ALUMNI 

We've  learned  that  oft  the  brownest  hands  will 

heap  the  biggest  pile, 
And  met  with  many  a  "  perfect  brick  "  beneath  a 

rimless  "tile," 

What  dreams  we  've  had  of  deathless  name,   as 

scholars,  statesmen,  bards, 
While  Fame,  the  lady  with  the  trump,  held  up  her 

picture  cards ! 
Till,  having  nearly  played  our  game,  she  gayly 

whispered,  "  Ah ! 
I  said  you  should  be  something  grand,  —  you  '11 

soon  be  grandpapa." 

Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day,  the  young 

nyist  take  their  turn ; 
There 's  something  always  to  forget,  and  something 

still  to  learn ; 
But  how  to  tell  what 's  old  or  young,  the  tap-root 

from  the  sprigs, 
Since  Florida  revealed  her  fount  to  Ponce  de  Leon 

Twiggs  ? 

The  wisest  was  a  Freshman  once,  just  freed  from 

bar  and  bolt, 

As  noisy  as  a  kettle-drum,  as  leggy  as  a  colt ; 
Don't  be  too  savage  with  the  boys,  —  the  Primer 

does  not  say 
The  kitten  ought  to  go  to  church  because  "  the  cat 

doth  prey." 

The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the  rule  of 

three ; 
Non  constat  that  A.  M.   must  prove  as   busy  as 

A.  B. 


OF  HARVARD   COLLEGE.  303 

When  Wise  the  father  tracked  the  son,  ballooning 

through  the  skies, 
He  taught  a  lesson  to  the  old,  —  go  thou  and  do 

like  Wise ! 

Now  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth,  of  high  or 

low  degree, 
Remember  how  we  only  get  one  annual  out  of 

three, 
And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three  dinners 

into  one 
Must  cut  their  salads  mighty  short,  and  pepper 

well  with  fun. 

I  Ve  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it 's  time  for  me  to 

set; 
A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am  lingering 

yet, 

As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk-and-watery 

moon 
Stains  with  its  dim  and  fading  ray  the  lustrous  blue 

of  noon. 

Farewell !  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake  our  ancient 

hall; 
God  save  the  Queen,  —  whose  throne  is  here,  —  the 

Mother  of  us  all ! 
Till  dawns  the  great  commencement-day  on  every 

shore  and  sea, 
And  "  Expectantur "  all  mankind,  to  take  their  last 

Degree ! 


304  THE  PARTING  SONG. 

THE   PARTING   SONG. 

FESTIVAL    OP    THE    ALUMNI,     1857. 

HE  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray 

On  Harvard's  holy  ground ; 
The  Matron  calls,  the  sons  obey, 

And  gather  smiling  round. 
CHORUS.  —  Then  old  and  young  together  stand, 

The  sunshine  and  the  snow, 
As  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
We  sing  before  we  go ! 

Her  hundred  opening  doors  have  swung ; 

Through  every  storied  hall 
The  pealing  echoes  loud  have  rung, 

"  Thrice  welcome  one  and  all ! " 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

We  floated  through  her  peaceful  bay, 

To  sail  life's  stormy  seas  ; 
But  left  our  anchor  where  it  lay 

Beneath  her  green  old  trees. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

As  now  we  lift  its  lengthening  chain, 

That  held  us  fast  of  old, 
The  rusted  rings  grow  bright  again,  — 

Their  iron  turns  to  gold. 

Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


BOSTON  COMMON.  305 

Though  scattered  ere  the  setting  sun, 
As  leaves  when  wild  winds  blow, 

Our  home  is  here,  our  hearts  are  one, 
Till  Charles  forgets  to  flow. 

Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


BOSTON  COMMON.  — THREE  PICTURES. 

FOR    THE    FAIR    IN    AID    OP    THE    FUND    TO    PRO 
CURE  BALL'S  STATUE  OF  WASHINGTON. 

1630. 

LL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 

And  straggling  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 
With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that 

turn, 

Bent  eastward  by  the  mastering  breeze,  — 
With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 
A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark !  the  trodden  branches  crack  ; 
A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream ; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back ; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream ; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer ; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 
The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull ! 
20 


306  BOSTON  COMMON. 


1774- 

THE  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "  rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are*red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come  : 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  stain 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 

186 

AROUND  the  green,  in  morning  light, 

The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 
And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays ; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hill-side  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth  !  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings ! 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 
His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 

The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands ; 
He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 

November  14,  1859. 


LATTER-DAY   WARNINGS. 


3°7 


HEN  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and 

locks,  — 

When  berries — whortle,  rasp,  and  straw- 
Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience*  sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 

Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 
Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 


308  PROLOGUE. 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel's  bore ;  • 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 


PROLOGUE. 

PROLOGUE?     Well,   of  course  the 

ladies  know ;  — 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  —  here 

we  go ! 

What  is  a  Prologue  ?     Let  our  Tutor  teach  : 
Pro  means  beforehand ;  logos  stands  for  speech. 
'Tis  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings, 
The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings  :  — 
Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 


PROLOGUE.  309 

"The  world's  a  stage/' — as  Shakespeare  said,  one 

day; 

The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant  to  say. 
The  outside  world 's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear ; 
The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma ; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa; 
Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid, 
The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 
One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 
When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 
Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 
Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 
And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief. 
"When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech, 
And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 
Cries,  "  Help,  kyind  Heaven ! "  and  drops  upon 

her  knees 

On  the  green — baize,  —  beneath  the  (canvas)  trees,  — 
See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly :  — 
"  Ha !  Villain !  Draw !     Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or 

die  ! " 

When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionnaire, 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 
Sobs    on   his    neck,    "  My  boy !   MY  BOY  !  !    MY 

BOY  ! ! !  " 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night, 
Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies,  attend  !     While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 
Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 
One  thing  is  certain  :  Love  will  triumph  here  ! 


3io  PROLOGUE. 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 

The  world's  great  masters,  when  you  're  out  of 

school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play : 
Man  has  his  will,  —  but  woman  has  her  way ! 
While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire, 
Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 
The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 
Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 
All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 
But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful  heart. 
All  foes  you  master ;  but  a  woman's  wit 
Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  're  hit. 
So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 
Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade, 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 
One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 
Bare-armed,    swart-visaged,    gaunt,    and    shaggy- 
browed, 

Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 
His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 
He  sheathed  his  blade  ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go ; 
The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 
"  Why  strikest  not  ?    Perform  thy  murderous  act," 
The  prisoner  said.     (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 
"Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied; 
"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 
He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "  Now  then,  if  you  please ! " 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 
Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the  floor,  — 
Bounced  down  the  steps ;  —  the  prisoner  said  no  more ! 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA.        311 

Woman !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye ; 
If  death  lurk  in  it,  O  how  sweet  to  die ! 
Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head ; 
We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  're  dead ! 


THE   OLD   MAN   OF   THE   SEA. 

A.   NIGHTMARE    DREAM    BY    DAYLIGHT 


0  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of 

the  Sea? 
Have  you  met  with  that  dreadful  old 

man  ? 

If  you  have  n't  been  caught,  you  will  be,  you  will  be ; 
For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by  your  throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale ; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight  by  the  coat,  by  the  coat, 

Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 

There 's  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye,  in  his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands ; 
You  cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get  by, 

If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he  stands. 

O,  you  're  grabbed  !     See  his  claw  on  your  sleeve, 

on  your  sleeve ! 

It  is  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea ! 
You  're    a    Christian,  no  doubt  you   believe,  you 

believe : 
You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be ! 


3 ix        THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA. 

— Is  the  breakfast-hour  past?     They  must  wait, 

they  must  wait, 

While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down, 
While  the  Johnny-cake  burns  on  the  grate,  on  the 

grate, 
And  the  toast  is  done  frightfully  brown. 

— Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep;  let  it  cool,  let  it  cool, 

And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret, 
And  children  half-starved  go  to  school,  go  to  school ; 

He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

—  Hark !  the  bell  for  the  train !  "  Come  along ! 

Come  along ! 

For  there  is  n't  a  second  to  lose." 
«ALL  ABOARD!"  (He  holds  on.)  "Fsht!  ding- 
dong  !     Fsht !  ding-dong  ! "  — 

You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

—  There  's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a  peach,  like  a 

peach, 

That  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  church ;  — 
But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech,  like  a  leech, 
And  you  leave  your  lost  bride  in  the  lurch. 

—  There  's  a  babe  in  a  fit,  —  hurry  quick !  hurry 

quick  ! 

To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can  ! 
The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while  you  stick, 
In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ! 

—  I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore,  of  the  Bore ; 
The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know ; 

I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at  my  door ; 
I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow ; 


ODE  FOR  A   SOCIAL   MEETING.      313 

I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend,  by  the 

friend, 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  bur ; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end,  without 

end, 
Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir  : 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I  shake,  and  I 
shake, 

At  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man ; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,  and  I  take,  and  I  take, 

To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can  ! 

0  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea ! 

He  's  come  back  like  the  Wandering  Jew ! 
He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon  me,  upon  me,  — 

And  be  sure  that  he  'U  have  it  on  you  ! 


ODE   FOR  A   SOCIAL   MEETING. 

WITH  SLIGHT   ALTERATIONS    BY    A   TEETOTALER. 

OME  !   fill  a  fresh   bumper,  —  for  why 

should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  noetar  still  reddens  our  cups 
as  they  flow 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juices  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  yubios  shall  rtm. 


314       THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

half-ripened  apples 

The  puyplog'lobod-clnutorfl  their  life-dews  have  bled; 

taste  sugar  oflead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  frogyanuu  (Ley  aliod  ! 

rank  poisons  wines  !  !  / 

For  summer's  laat  roooa  lie  hid  in  the 


etable-boys  smoking  long-nines 


eae-oys  smong  ong-nine 

That  were  garnered  by  maiclciia  wlio  laughed  thiu 


scowl  howl  ecoff 

Then  a  omilo,  and  a  gte),  and  a  toart,  and  a  eb 

strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

For  0,11  tlio  good  frino,  and  wo  Vo  como  of  it  horo  I 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  alii 

Long  livo  tlio  gay  coyvant  that  Jauglm  for  ito  all  I 


THE   DEACONS    MASTERPIECE: 

OK    THE    WONDERFUL    "ONE-HOSS   SHAY.tJ 

A    LOGICAL,    STORY. 

AVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 

hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way- 
It;  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it ah,  but  stay, 

J  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay. 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  1 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.       315 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 
Eind  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kcntry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn*  break  daown : 
—  "  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thttt  the  weakcs'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T*  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 


316       THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through."  — 

"  There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  «  naow  she  '11  dew ! " 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they  1 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  onc-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ;  — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridgc  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ;  — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.       317 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You're  welcome.  — No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  Earthquake-day.  — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup  !  "  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 


3i  8  AESTIVATION. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  Avas  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meetV-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meetV-house  clock,  — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  lie  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 


JESTIVATION. 

Jk.N  UNPUBLISHED  POEM,  BY  MY  LATE  LATIN 
TUTOR. 

N  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid 

rames ; 

His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 


CONTENTMENT.  319 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine  ! 

To  me,  alas !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue  ! 

Me  wretched  !  Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades  I 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 
O,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  -*•" 
Depart,  —  be  off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  —  erump  1 


CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below.' 


ITTLE  I  ask ;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 
That  I  may  call  my  own  ;  -* 


And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  AmenJ 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ;  — - 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice, 


3ao 


CONTENTMENT. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ;  — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  —  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

• 
Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names  ; 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James  ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me  ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire  ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  ;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 


CONTENTMENT.  321 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

21 


322        PARSON  TUREWS  LEGACY. 

PAESON   TURELL'S   LEGACY: 

OR,   THE    PRESIDENT'S    OLD    ARM-CHAIR. 

A   MATHEMATICAL  STORY. 

ACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 

At  Cambridge.     Is  kept  in  the  College 

there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That' s  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  ?     Don't  say  so  !     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 
"  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 
—  Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 


PARSON  TURELDS  LEGACY.        323 

Noi  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Hows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand ; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four,  — 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor : 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 
—  Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play ;  — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 
And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 
With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ;  — 
I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 
You  've  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  TURELL  1 
Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell ; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk ; 
Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak,  — 
Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 
One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,  — 
But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand,  — 
Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 


324       PARSON  TURELDS  LEGACY. 

Chief-Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  —  in. 

—  Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name ; 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told : 

"  Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde ; 

"When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 

To  y6  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 

On  Payment  of "  —  (naming  a  certain  sum)  — 

"  By  him  to  whom  ye  Chaire  shall  come ; 

He  to  y*  oldest  Senior  next, 

And  soe  forever,"  —  (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 

"  But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claimc, 

That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS, 

And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 

Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 

"Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 

Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 

Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 

Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 

And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 

Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 

All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 

Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 

And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 

—  And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair ; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 


PARSON  TURELDS  LEGACY.        325 

Four  got  ROBINSON  ;  five  got  Dix; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six ; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

—  When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  would  n't  count  it,  but  said  "  a  heap/' 
A  certain  RICHARDS,  —  the  books  declare, — 
(A.  M.  in  '90  ?     I  've  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  — name  not  there,)  — 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten  ; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  see  the  book. 
—  By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 
The  Governor  came  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop ; 
Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 
The  yellow  fifes  whistled  beneath  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath ;" 


3*6        PARSON  TURELUS  LEGACY. 

So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 

Till  the  President  met  Mm,  cap  in  hand. 

— The  Governor  "hefted"  the  crowns,  and  said, — 

"A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson's  dead." 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said  he,  — 

"  There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  's  my  fee. 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 

On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL  ! " 

The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 

(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you'll  see.) 

The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 

And  the  Governor  rose  and  BROKE  THE  WILL  ! 

—  "  About  those  conditions  1 "    Well,  now  you  go 

And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 

Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 

If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 

You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 

Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 

The  President  rises  ;  both  old  and  young 

May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 

The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 

Is  this  :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 

And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 

The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name ; 

He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the  same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 

And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 

Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 

And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 

That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !     Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 


DE  SAUTY.  3*7 

Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 

To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 

That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat ; 

For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't  spill, 

And.  there 's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's  will ! 


DE   SAUTY. 

AN  ELECTRO-CHEMICAL  ECLOGUE. 
Professor.  Slue-Nose. 

PROFESSOR. 

ELL  me,  0  Provincial!  speak,  Ceruleo- 

Nasal ! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now 

among  you, 
Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thunder, 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 


Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  night-cap, 
Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiving  feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  O  Ceruleo-Nasal  ? 
Or  is  he  a  mytkus,  — ancient  word  for  "humbug,"-— 
Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus  ? 


328  DE  SAUTY. 

Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De  Sauty  1 
Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-solution  ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE. 

Many  things  thou  askest,  jackknife-bearing  stranger, 
Much-conjecturing  mortal,  pork-and-treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine  ear-flap  toward 

me, 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When  the  charge  galvanic  tingled  through  the  cable, 
At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us  : 
Called  himself  "  DE  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term  mammalia, 
So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire  electric, 
Sucking  in  the  current. 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed  the  pale- 
faced  stranger,  — 

Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat  and  rosy,  — 
And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articulation, 
Said,  "All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 

From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utterance,  spread 
ing 

Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the  groves  of 
steeples, 

Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  reverberations 
Of  "All  right!     DE  SAUTY." 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  329 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the  mystic 

stranger,  — 

Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker,  — 
Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn  odor 
Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his  forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow  suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 

C.  O.  H.  N.  Ferrum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil.  Potassa, 

Calc.  Sod.  Phosph.  Mag.  Sulphur,  Mang.  (?)  Alu- 

min.  (?)   Cuprum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had  perished ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no  current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear  him 
Cry,  «  All  right !     DE  SAUTY." 


THE   OLD   MAN  DREAMS. 


FOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 
I'M  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boj 

Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king  ! 


Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  1 


330  THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 

—  My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

—Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  — wife ! 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

w  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too  !  " 

—  "  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears  1 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years  !  " 

Why,  yes ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys ! 


MARE  RUBRUM.  33I 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  nis  pen,  — 

"  Why,  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  !  " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise, — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


MARE   RUBRUM. 

LASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine !-— 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days  ; 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  naming  through  its  crimson  blaze. 
The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade  ; 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 
By  Nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream. 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — • 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 


33*  MARE  RUBRUM. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die, 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  Beauty !  time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  form  nor  feature  may  withstand,  -«< 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand ;  -^ 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  schoolboy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall ; 
Here  rest  —  their  keen  vibrations  mute  — 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed ; 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  maddening  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew, 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  1 


WHAT   WE  ALL    THINK.  333 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine,  — 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled,  by  winter's  snow ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip, 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee ! 


WHAT   WE   ALL   THINK. 

HAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 

In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 
Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow ; 
That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 


That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  good  old  days  " 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That — mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child — 
The  "  best  of  women  "  each  has  known. 

Were  schoolboys  ever  half  so  wild  1 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown ! 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 


334  WHAT   WE  ALL    THINK. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 
The  angels  hovering  overhead 

Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 
And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  !  " 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

!Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it :  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


SPKING  HAS  COME.  335 


SPRING   HAS    COME. 

INTRA    MUROS. 

HE  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning 

rays ; 

For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear ; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower ! 


536  SPRING  HAS  COME. 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near ; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !  Spring  is  here ! " 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips ; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades,  — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide ; 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Rough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 

Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  tlirush's  trill,  the  robin's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 


A   GOOD    TIME  GOING! 


337 


O  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  — 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below ! 


A   GOOD   TIME   GOING! 

RAVE  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the   noblest  wreath  of 

rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good  by !  Good  by !  —  Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 
His  feet  among  the  English  daisies ! 

'T  is  here  we  part ;  — -  for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him ! 

His  home  !  —  the  Western  giant  smiles, 
And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it ;  — • 

This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 
'T  is  but  a  freckle,  —  never  mind  it  I 
22 


338  A   GOOD    TIME  GOING! 

He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 

And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 
Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles ! 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 
And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant : 
"  An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"  When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 
And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended ! " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 

Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 
From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 

Her  valor's  life-blood  runs  in  roses ; 
Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages  ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

Prom  sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together  ;  — 
With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 
And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between,  — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 
Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us, 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 


339 


We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us ; 
Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 

The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 
Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 

Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  ! 

Enough !  To  speed  a  parting  friend 

'T  is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen ;  — 
Yet  stay,  —  these  feeble  accents  blend 

With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 
Good  by !  once  more,  —  and  kindly  tell 

In  words  of  peace  the  young  world's  story,  — 
And  say,  besides,  we  love  too  well 

Our  mothers'  soil,  our  fathers'  glory ! 


THE   LAST   BLOSSOM. 

HOUGH  young  no  more,  we  still  would 

dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles ; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 
Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  milea. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 


340  THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  imprea* 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 

When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 
A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 

Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long  ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song ! 

She  blushes  !     Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold/ 


"THE  BOYS."  341 

Come  to  my  arms  !  —  love  heeds  not  years ; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 
Ha !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  1 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  —but  not  for  me ; 

Alas  !  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind ! 


"THE   BOYS." 

AS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with 

the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  mak- 

ing  a  noise. 

Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar !     We  're  twenty  to-night ! 

We're  twenty!     We're  twenty!     Who   says  we 

are  more  ? 
He  's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  !  —  show  him  the 

door ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty  1  "  —  Yes  !    white  if  we 

please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's  nothing 

can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?     Excuse  the  mistake ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  wre  have  shed,  -— 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 


342  "THE  BOYS." 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  havo 

been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  :  — 
That  boy  we  call "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call "  Judge"; 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow 's  the  "  Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the  right ; 
"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night  1 
That 's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when 

we  chaff; 
There's  the  "Keverend"  What's  his  name?  — 

don't  make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 
And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true  I 
So  they  chose  him  right  in,  —  a  good  joke  it  was  too ! 

There 's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain, 
That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain ; 
When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 
We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he 's  "  Tho 
Squire." 

And  there  Js  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "  of  thee !  " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  — You  think  he 's  all  fun ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest 
of  all ! 


THE  OPENING   OF  THE  PIANO.     343 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or 

with  pen ; 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  THE  BOYS  ! 

January  6,  1859. 


THE    OPENING   OF   THE   PIANO. 

N  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house 

you  may  have  seen 
With  the  gambrel-roof,  and  the  gable 

looking  westward  to  the  green, 
At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on 

its  right, 

Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of 
to-night ! 

Ah  me !  how  I  remember  the  evening  when  it  came ! 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group  of  cheeks 

in  flame, 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened  that  had  come 

from  over  seas, 
With  its  smell  of  mastic-varnish  and  its  flash  of 

ivory  keys ! 


344     THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO. 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restlessness 

of joy; 
For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the  sister 

crowd  the  boy, 
Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave  paternal 

way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with  the  words, 

"  Now,  Mary,  play." 

For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was  a  very  sov 
ereign  balm ; 

She  had  sprinkled  it  over  Sorrow  and  seen  its  brow 
grow  calm, 

In  the  days  of  slender  harpsichords  with  tapping 
tinkling  quills, 

Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin  metallic 
thrills. 

So  Mary,  the  household  minstrel,  who  always  loved 

to  please, 
Sat  down  to  the  new  "  dementi,"  and  struck  the 

glittering  keys. 
Hushed  were  the  children's  voices,  and  every  eye 

grew  dim, 
As,  floating  from  lip  and  finger,  arose  the  "  Vesper 

Hymn." 

—  Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly  and  rosy- 
red, 

(Wedded  since,  and  a  widow,  —  something  like  ten 
years  dead,) 

Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none  before, 

Steals  from  her  mother's  chamber  and  peeps  at  the 
open  door, 


MIDSUMMER.  345 

Just  as  the  "  Jubilate  "  in  threaded  whisper  dies, 
"  Open  it !  open  it,  lady !  "  the  little  maiden  cries, 
(For  she  thought  't  was  a  singing  creature  caged  in 

a  box  she  heard,) 
"  Open  it !  open  it,  lady !  and  let  me  see  the  bird ! " 


MIDSUMMER. 

ERE  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away, 
I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to-day ! 
Look !  are  the  southern  curtains  drawn  ? 
Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone ! 

Not  that,  —  the  palm-tree's  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef! 
Its  breath  is  heated  ;  —  I  would  swing 
The  broad  gray  plumes,  — the  eagle's  wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood !  — 
Pluck  me  a  half-blown  lily-bud, 
A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 

Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 
And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

—  Who  knows  it  not,  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil,  — 
The  pulse  that  nutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow  1 


346  TO  J.  L.  MOTLEY. 

O  Nature  !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest,  — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green ! 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 
Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with  mine, 
Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 
In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 


A  PARTING  HEALTH. 

TO    J.    L.    MOTLEY. 

]ES,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though 

friendship  may  claim 
To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  lau 
rels  of  fame ; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 
'T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel, 
As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of 

steel, 

As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom, 
Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties 

shall  bloom, 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glowing  dyes 
That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies  ! 


TO  J.  L.  MOTLEY.  347 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 
Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  un 
sung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  be 
queathed  ! 

From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom  they 
breathed ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 

Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp 
with  his  broom ! 


The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and  lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled  shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  trampled  and 

crushed  : 
THE  TRUE  KNIGHT  OP  LEARNING,  —  the  world 

holds  him  dear, — 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his 

career ! 


1857. 


348  TO  J.  R.  LOWELL. 

A   GOOD-BY. 

TO    J.    R.    LOWELL. 

AREWELL,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast 

to  the  tide, 
And   the   rough   arms   of    Ocean    are 

stretched  for  his  bride ; 
The  winds  from  the  mountain  stream  over  the  bay ; 
One  clasp  of  the  hand,  then  away  and  away  ! 

I  see  the  tall  mast  as  it  rocks  by  the  shore ; 
The  sun  is  declining,  I  see  it  once  more ; 
To-day  like  the  blade  in  a  thick-waving  field, 
To-morrow  the  spike  on  a  Highlander's  shield. 

Alone,  while  the  cloud  pours  its  treacherous  breath, 
With  the  blue  lips  all  round  her  whose  kisses  are 

death ; 

Ah,  think  not  the  breeze  that  is  urging  her  sail 
Has  left  her  unaided  to  strive  with  the  gale. 

There  are  hopes  that  play  round  her,  like  fires  on 

the  mast, 

That  will  light  the  dark  hour  till  its  danger  has  past ; 
There  are  prayers  that  will  plead  with  the  storm 

when  it  raves, 
And  whisper  "  Be  still ! "  to  the  turbulent  waves. 

Nay,  think  not  that  Friendship  has  called  us  in  vain 
To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it  again ; 
There  is  strength  in  its  circle,  —  you  lose  the  bright 

star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though  shining  afar. 


TO  J.  R.  LOWELL. 


349 


I  give  you  one  health  in  the  juice  of  the  vine, 
The  blood  of  the  vineyard  shall  mingle  with  mine ; 
Thus,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew-drops  of  gold, 
As  we  empty  our  hearts  of  the  blessings  they  hold- 
April  29,  1855. 


AT   A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL. 

TO   J.    R.    LOWELL. 


E  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  — 

For  what  have  years  to  bring 
But  larger  floods  of  love  and  light, 
And  sweeter  songs  to  sing  ? 


We  will  not  drown  in  wordy  praise 
The  kindly  thoughts  that  rise ; 

If  Friendship  own  one  tender  phrase, 
He  reads  it  in  our  eyes. 

We  need  not  waste  our  schoolboy  art 
To  gild  this  notch  of  Time ;  — 

Forgive  me  if  my  wayward  heart 
Has  throbbed  in  artless  rhyme. 

Enough  for  him  the  silent  grasp 
That  knits  us  hand  in  hand, 

And  he  the  bracelet's  radiant  clasp 
That  locks  our  circling  band. 


350  TO  J.  F.   CLARKE. 

Strength  to  his  hours  of  manly  toil ! 

Peace  to  his  starlit  dreams  ! 
Who  loves  alike  the  furrowed  soil, 

The  music-haunted  streams ! 

Sweet  smiles  to  keep  forever  bright 
The  sunshine  on  his  lips, 

And  faith  that  sees  the  ring  of  light 
Bound  nature's  last  eclipse ! 

February  2,2,  1859. 


A  BIRTHDAY   TRIBUTE. 

TO    J.    P.    CLARKE. 


HO  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead, 

Through  pastures  green,  the  Master's 


^J  What  guileless  "  Israelite  indeed  " 
The  folded  flock  may  watch  and  keep  ? 

He  who  with  manliest  spirit  joins 
The  heart  of  gentlest  human  mould, 

With  burning  light  and  girded  loins, 
To  guide  the  flock,  or  watch  the  fold; 

True  to  all  Truth  the  world  denies, 
Not  tongue-tied  for  its  gilded  sin; 

Not  always  right  in  all  men's  eyes, 
But  faithful  to  *he  light  within; 


TO  J.  F.    CLARKE.  351 

Who  asks  no  meed  of  earthly  fame, 
Who  knows  no  earthly  master's  call, 

Who  hopes  for  man,  through  guilt  and  shame, 
Still  answering,  "God  is  over  all"; 

Who  makes  another's  grief  his  own, 
Whose  smile  lends  joy  a  double  cheer  ; 

Where  lives  the  saint,  if  such  be  known  ?  — 
Speak  softly,  —such  an  one  is  here ! 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  thou  hast  borne 

The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day ; 
Yet,  o'er  thee,  bright  with  beams  unshorn, 

The  sun  still  shows  thine  onward  way. 

To  thee  our  fragrant  love  we  bring, 

In  buds  that  April  half  displays, 
Sweet  first-born  angels  of  the  spring, 

Caught  in  their  opening  hymn  of  praise. 

What  though  our  faltering  accents  fail, 
Our  captives  know  their  message  well, 

Our  words  unbreathed  their  lips  exhale, 
And  sigh  more  love  thaa  oura  caji  tell 

April  4,  1860. 


352  THE  aRAY  CHIEF. 


THE   GKAY  CHIEF. 

FOR   THE    MEETING    OF    THE    MASSACHUSETTS 
MEDICAL    SOCIETY,    1859. 

IS  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er, 
And  crown  with  honest  praise 

The  gray  old  chief,  who  strikes  no  more 
The  blow  of  better  days. 

Before  the  true  and  trusted  sage 

With  willing  hearts  we  bend, 
When  years  have  touched  with  hallowing  age 

Our  Master,  Guide,  and  Friend. 

For  all  his  manhood's  labor  past, 

For  love  and  faith  long  tried, 
His  age  is  honored  to  the  last, 

Though  strength  and  will  have  died. 

But  when,  untamed  by  toil  and  strife, 

Full  in  our  front  he  stands, 
The  torch  of  light,  the  shield  of  life, 

Still  lifted  in  his  hands, 

No  temple,  though  its  walls  resound 

With  bursts  of  ringing  cheers, 
Can  hold  the  honors  that  surround 

His  manhood's  twice-told  years ! 


THE  LAST  LOOK.  353 

THE   LAST  LOOK. 

W.    W.    SWAIN. 

EHOLD  —  not  him  we  knew ! 
This   was   the   prison   which   his   soul 

looked  through, 
Tender,  and  brave,  and  true-. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard  ; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear  familiar  word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 

He  spake  with  poet's  tongue ; 
Living,  for  him  the  minstrel's  lyre  was  strung : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung ! 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain ; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr-chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul,  —  in  vain  ! 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island  lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had  gone  before 
To  that  untrodden  shore  ! 

La,  through  its  leafy  screen, 
A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  half  unseen ! 

21 


354  IN  MEMORY  OF 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 

Where  the  calm  shadows  that  his  soul  loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed ; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the  morning's  light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Night ! 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 
Close  by  those  mounds  which  hold  his  loved,  his 

own,  — 
Lonely,  but  not  alone. 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 

Till  Heaven's  bright  watchers  slumber  in  the  sky, 
And  Death  himself  shall  die  ! 

NAUSHON,  September  aa,  1858. 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
CHARLES   WENTWORTH  UPHAM,  JUNIOB. 


E  was  all  sunshine ;  in  his  face 

The  very  soul  of  sweetness  shone  ; 
Fairest  and  gentlest  of  his  race ; 

None  like  him  we  can  call  our  own. 


CHARLES  WENTWORTH  UPHAM,  JR.    355 

Something  there  was  of  one  that  died 
In  her  fresh  spring-time  long  ago, 

Our  first  dear  Mary,  angel-eyed, 
Whose  smile  it  was  a  bliss  to  know. 

Something  of  her  whose  love  imparts 
Such  radiance  to  her  day's  decline, 

We  feel  its  twilight  in  our  hearts 
Bright  as  the  earliest  morning-shine. 

Yet  richer  strains  our  eye  could  trace 
That  made  our  plainer  mould  more  fair, 

That  curved  the  lip  with  happier  grace, 
That  waved  the  soft  and  silken  hair. 

Dust  unto  dust !  the  lips  are  still 
That  only  spoke  to  cheer  and  bless ; 

The  folded  hands  lie  white  and  chill 
Unclasped  from  sorrow's  last  caress. 

Leave  him  in  peace ;  he  will  not  heed 
These  idle  tears  we  vainly  pour, 

Give  back  to  earth  the  fading  weed 
Of  mortal  shape  his  spirit  wore. 

"  Shall  I  not  weep  my  heartstrings  torn, 
My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 

My  youth  uncrowned,  my  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  ?  " 

O  Mary !  one  who  bore  thy  name/ 
Whose  Friend  and  Master  was  divine, 

Sat  waiting  silent  till  He  came, 

Bowed  down  in  speechless  grief  like  thine. 


356  MARTHA. 

"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?  "    "  Come,"  they  say, 
Pointing  to  where  the  loved  one  slept ; 

Weeping,  the  sister  led  the  way,  — 
And,  seeing  Mary,  "  Jesus  wept." 

He  weeps  with  thee,  with  all  that  mourn, 
And  He  shall  wipe  thy  streaming  eyes 

Who  knew  all  sorrows,  woman-born,  — 
Trust  in  his  word ;  thy  dead  shall  rise ! 

April  15,  1860. 


MARTHA. 

DIED    JANUARY    7,    l86l. 

EXTON  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
Her  weary  hands  their  labor  cease ; 
Good  night,  poor  Martha,— sleep  in  peace ! 
Toll  the  bell ! 


Sexton  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
For  many  a  year  has  Martha  said, 
"  I  'm  old  and  poor,  —  would  I  were  dead  ! " 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
She  '11  bring  no  more,  by  day  or  night, 
Her  basket  full  of  linen  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 


SUN  AND   SHADOW.  357 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
'T  is  fitting  she  should  lie  below 
A  pure  white  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
Sleep,  Martha,  sleep,  to  wake  in  light, 
Where  all  the  robes  are  stainless  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 


SUN  AND   SHADOW. 

S  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of 

green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 
Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue  : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 
The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar  ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore  ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 


358        THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore ! 

A^£~  -    S-~~ 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

HIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 

feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
fijf^yirl       The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream 
ing  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 


THE   TWO  ARMIES.  359 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  arTTree, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 


THE    TWO   ARMIES. 

S  Life's  unending  column  pours, 

Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 
Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 


360  THE  TWO  ARMIES. 

One  marches  to  the  dram-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 
With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 

Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 
No  blood-red  pennons  wave ; 

Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 
"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade 

At  Honor's  trumpet-call, 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  fall. 

!For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 

Each  answers,  "  Here  am  I ! " 

Tor  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 
The  builder's  marble  piles, 

The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 
Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 
That  floods  the  lonely  graves 

When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 
In  flowery-foaming  waves. 


FOR  THE  SANITARY  ASSOCIATION.   361 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Though  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Pier  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  — 

While  Valor's  haughty  champions  wait 

Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 
Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 

To  sit  beside  the  Throne  1 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL 
SANITARY  ASSOCIATION. 

1860. 


HAT  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ? 

The  bitter  drug  we  buy  and  sell, 
The  brands  that  scorch,  the  blades  that 

shine, 
The  scars  we  leave,  the  "cures"  we  tell? 


Are  these  thy  glories,  holiest  Art,  — 
The  trophies  that  adorn  thee  best,  — 

Or  but  thy  triumph's  meanest  part,  — 
Where  mortal  weakness  stands  confessed  ? 


36a  FOR  THE  SANITARY  ASSOCIATION. 

We  take  the  arms  that  Heaven  supplies 
For  Life's  long  battle  with  Disease, 

Taught  by  our  various  need  to  prize 
Our  frailest  weapons,  even  these. 

But  ah  !  when  Science  drops  her  shield  — 
Its  peaceful  shelter  proved  in  vain  — 

And  bares  her  snow-white  arm  to  wield 
The  sad,  stern  ministry  of  pain ; 

When  shuddering  o'er  the  fount  of  life, 
She  folds  her  heaven-anointed  wings, 

To  lift  unmoved  the  glittering  knife 
That  searches  all  its  crimson  springs ; 

When,  faithful  to  her  ancient  lore, 
She  thrusts  aside  her  fragrant  balm 

For  blistering  juice,  or  cankering  ore, 
And  tames  them  till  they  cure  or  calm ; 

When  in  her  gracious  hand  are  seen 
The  dregs  and  scum  of  earth  and  seas, 

Her  kindness  counting  all  things  clean 
That  lend  the  sighing  sufferer  ease ; 

Though  on  the  field  that  Death  has  won, 
She  saves  some  stragglers  in  retreat ;  — 

These  single  acts  of  mercy  done 
Are  but  confessions  of  defeat. 

What  though  our  tempered  poisons  save 
Some  wrecks  of  life  from  aches  and  ails : 

Those  grand  specifics  Nature  gave 

Were  never  poised  by  weights  or  scales  ! 


MUSA.  363 

God  lent  his  creatures  light  and  air, 

And  waters  open  to  the  skies  ; 
Man  locks  him  in  a  stifling  lair, 

And  wonders  why  his  brother  dies  ! 

In  vain  our  pitying  tears  are  shed, 
In  vain  we  rear  the  sheltering  pile 

Where  Art  weeds  out  from  bed  to  bed 
The  plagues  we  planted  by  the  mile ! 

Be  that  the  glory  of  the  past ; 

With  these  our  sacred  toils  begin: 
So  flies  in  tatters  from  its  mast 

The  yellow  flag  ofjloih^ind  sin, 

And  lo  !  the  starry  folds  reveal 

The  blazoned  truth  we  hold  so  dear : 

To  guard  is  better  than  to  heal,  — 
The  shield  is  nobler  than  the  spear  I 


MUSA. 

MY  lost  beauty ! — hast  thou  folded  quite 
Thy  wings  of  morning  light 
Beyond  those  iron  gates 
Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  hag 
gard  Fates, 
And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 

To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 

Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in  his  icy 
streams  1 


364  MUSA. 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair ! 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong, 
And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  I 

Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 

Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  altar 
burn'? 

Come  to  me  !  —  I  will  flood  thy  silent  shrine 

With  my  soul's  sacred  wine, 

And  heap  thy  marble  floors 
As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores, 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 

Aiid  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in 
the  breeze. 

Come  to  me  !  —  thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed  words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds ;  — 

No  wailing  bulbul's  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note, 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With   flow  so  liquid-soft,  with   strain   so  velvet- 
smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a  queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 

Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  *  twines,  — 
Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moonlight  shines, 

*  The  "  bitter-sweet "  of  New  England  is  the   Celastrus 
scandens,  —  "  Bourreau  des  arbres  "  of  the  Canadian  French. 


MUSA.  365 

And  Summer's  fruited  gems, 
And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn's  berried 
stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 
Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 
Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 

Carved  with  old  names  Life's  time-Avorn  roll  disowns, 

Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o'er  the  crumbled  bones 
Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 

While  the  sad  Pilgrim  watched  to  scare  the  wolf 
away. 

Spread  o'er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing ! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 

Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom — for  me  no  more, — 
The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 

Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced 
stars ! 

Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blossoms  shed !  — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 

While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from  Indian  isles, 

And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy  men  ia 
prayer ! 

O  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 
With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain  !  — 
On  life's  autumnal  blast, 


366  THE  VOICELESS. 

Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth's  passion-flowers  are 

cast,  — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  last !  — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 
And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  "  For 
ever  thine !  " 


THE   VOICELESS. 

E  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slum-. 

her, 

But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 
The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story,  — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 

Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses,  — 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH.          367 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 
To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 

What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 
As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH. 

H,  here  it  is  !  the  sliding  rail 

That  marks  the  old  remembered  spot,  — 
The  gap  that  struck  our  schoolboy  trail,  — 
The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver  birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan ; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight. 

The  gabled  porch,  with  woodbine  green,  — 
The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 

Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 
The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 


368  THE  TWO   STREAMS. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 

With  shaking  knees  and  leaping  heart,  - 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 

With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 

And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 
Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line ; 

Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 
To  walk  unswerving  were  divine ! 

Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath ;  — 
O,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path, 
We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door  I 


THE   TWO   STREAMS. 

EHOLD  the  rocky  wall 

That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending, 

they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 


Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN.  369 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea ! 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

E  sleeps  not  here ;  in  hope  and  prayer 

His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 
But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said :  — 

"  Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear ! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea ; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

24 


37o  ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

"  Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod : 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"  Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways  : 

«  The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake :  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  do\vn  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "  Hook  of  Holland's  "  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these  !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 

And  westward  ho  !  for  worlds  unknown. 

—  And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave* 


ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER.     371 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 

In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 
Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 

His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry  ! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


ST.  ANTHONY   THE   REFORMER. 

HIS    TEMPTATION. 


O  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud ! 

We  know  how  cheaply  that  is  won ; 
The  idle  homage  of  the  crowd 
Is  proof  of  tasks  as  idly  done. 


A  surface-smile  may  pay  the  toil 

That  follows  still  the  conquering  Right, 

With  soft,  white  hands  to  dress  the  spoil 
That  sun-browned  valor  clutched  in  fight. 

Sing  the  sweet  song  of  other  days, 

Serenely  placid,  safely  true, 
And  o'er  the  present's  parching  ways 

The  verse  distils  like  evening  dew. 

But  speak  in  words  of  living  power,  -— 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scalding  rain 

That  plashed  before  the  burning  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  cities  of  the  plain ! 


372  AVIS. 

Then  scowling  Hate  turns  deadly  pale,  — 
Then  Passion's  half-coiled  adders  spring, 

And,  smitten  through  their  leprous  mail, 
Strike  right  and  left  in  hope  to  sting. 

If  thou,  unmoved  by  poisoning  wrath, 
Thy  feet  on  earth,  thy  heart  above, 

Canst  walk  in  peace  thy  kingly  path, 
Unchanged  in  trust,  unchilled  in  love,  — 

Too  kind  for  bitter  words  to  grieve, 
Too  firm  for  clamor  to  dismay, 

When  Faith  forbids  thee  to  believe, 
And  Meekness  calls  to  disobey,  — 

Ah,  then  beware  of  mortal  pride ! 

The  smiling  pride  that  calmly  scorns 
Those  foolish  fingers,  crimson  dyed 

In  laboring  on  thy  crown  of  thorns ! 


AVIS. 

MAY  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  — 
Alas  !  thy  forehead  never  knew 

The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 
Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 

Daughter  of  want  and  wrong  and  woe, 

I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 
Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing  flow 

By  Mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 


AVIS.  373 

—  "  Avis  !  "  —  With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 
At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 

The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 

Drew  near  to  greet  us,  —  spoke,  and  smiled. 

God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win,  — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

—  «  And  who  is  Avis  1 "  —  Hear  the  tale 
The  calm-voiced  matrons  gravely  tell,  — 

The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 

With  the  lost  children  running  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  relate 

The  little  suffering  outcast's  ail  1 
Not  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate 

So  turned  the  rose-wreathed  revellers  pale. 

Ah,  veil  the  living  death  from  sight 
That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye  ! 

The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 
The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 


374  AVIS. 

Take  her,  dread  Angel !     Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — • 

No  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 

The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall  learn 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 
Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 

Still  battling  for  the  spoil  of  Life 
While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death ;  the  prize  is  won ; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast ! 

Her  task  is  done ;  no  voice  divine 

Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly  fame. 

No  eye  can  see  the  aureole  shine 

That  rings  her  brow  with  heavenly  flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 
Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 

When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 
With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 
The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 

And  let  thine  image  live  alone 
TO  hallow  this  unstudied  song  ! 


IRIS,  HER  BOOK.  375 


IRIS,   HER  BOOK. 

PRAY  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore 

thee, 

By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore  thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  before 

thee! 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  her, 

Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 

Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Nature  told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of  awaking 
Those  chorded  keys  that  soothe  a  sorrow's  aching, 
Giving  the  dumb  heart  voice,  that  else  were  breaking. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,  suffered.  Lo,  the  pictured  token ! 
Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade  unspoken, 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  unbroken  ? 

She  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden  fancies,  — 
Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  high  romances, 
And  talked  strange  tongues  with  angels  in  her  trances. 

Twin-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  nature  wearing,  — 

Sometimes  a  flashing  falcon  in  her  daring, 

Then  a  poor  mateless  dove  that  droops  despairing. 

Questioning  all  things  :  Why  her  Lord  had  sent  her  ? 
What  were  these  torturing  gifts,  and  wherefore  lent 

her? 
Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tormentor. 


37 6  IRIS,  HER  BOOK. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish :  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sorrows  riven, 
Save  me !  O,  save  me !     Shall  I  die  forgiven  ? 

And  then Ah,  God !     But  nay,  it  little  mat 
ters  : 

Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn  scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes  and  shatters ! 

If  she  had Well !     She  longed,  and  knew  not 

wherefore. 

Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to  care  for  ? 
3Sb  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer  for  ? 

She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set  men  dreaming, 
Yet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses  streaming 
Showed  not  unlovely  to  her  simple  seeming. 

"Vain  ?     Let  it  be  so  !     Nature  was  her  teacher. 
What  if  a  lonely  and  unsistered  creature 
Loved  her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing  feature, 

Saying,  unsaddened,  —  This  shall  soon  be  faded, 
And  double-hued  the  shining  tresses  braided, 
And  all  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  shaded  ? 

• This  her  poor  book  is  full  of  saddest  follies, 

Of  tearful  smiles  and  laughing  melancholies, 
With  summer  roses  twined  and  wintry  hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossing  of  uncertain  chances, 
Somewhere,  beneath  some  maiden's  tear-dimmed 

glances 
May  fall  her  little  book  of  dreams  and  fancies. 


UNDER    THE  VIOLETS.  377 

Sweet  sister !     Iris,  who  shall  never  name  thee, 
Trembling  for  fear  her  open  heart  may  shame  thee, 
Speaks  from  this  vision-haunted  page  to  claim  thee. 

Spare  her,  I  pray  thee !     If  the  maid  is  sleeping, 
Peace  with  her !  she  has  had  her  hour  of  weeping. 
No  more !     She  leaves  her  memory  in  thy  keeping. 


UNDER   THE   VIOLETS. 

EH  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white  ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 
Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 

Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 

And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 
And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun. 


378  THE  PROMISE. 

The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ! 

Say  only  this  :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


THE   PROMISE. 

OT  charity  we  ask, 

Nor  yet  thy  gift  refuse ; 
Please  thy  light  fancy  with  the  easy  task 
Only  to  look  and  choose. 


THE  PROMISE.  379 

The  little-heeded  toy 
That  wins  thy  treasured  gold 
May  be  the  dearest  memory,  holiest  joy, 
Of  coming  years  untold. 

Heaven  rains  on  every  heart, 
But  there  its  showers  divide, 
The  drops  of  mercy  choosing  as  they  part 
The  dark  or  glowing  side. 

One  kindly  deed  may  turn 
The  fountain  of  thy  soul 

To  love's  sweet  day-star,  that  shall  o'er  thee  burn 
Long  as  its  currents  roll ! 

The  pleasures  thou  hast  planned,  — 
Where  shall  their  memory  be 
When  the  white  angel  with  the  freezing  hand 
Shall  sit  and  watch  by  thee  1 

Living,  thou  dost  not  live, 
If  mercy's  spring  run  dry ; 

What  Heaven  has  lent  thee  wilt  thou  freely  givo, 
Dying,  thou  shalt  not  die ! 

HE  promised  even  so  ! 
To  thee  His  lips  repeat,  — 
Behold,  the  tears  that  soothed  thy  sister's  woe 
Have  washed  thy  Master's  feet ! 

March  zo,  1859. 


380  TEE  LIVING   TEMPLE. 

THE   LIVING   TEMPLE. 

OT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 

Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen : 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 

Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 


THE  LIVING   TEMPLE.  381 

And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheda 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms ! 


A   SUN-DAY  HYMN. 


HYMN   OF   TRUST. 

LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-bora  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our  hearts  still  whispering,  Thou  art  near ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near  I 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near ! 


A   SUN-DAY   HYMN. 

ORD  of  all  being  !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star ; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near  1 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH.    383 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day  ; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn ; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn ; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign ; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is  love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 

We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame ! 


A  VOICE   OF  THE  LOYAL  NOBTH. 

NATIONAL   FAST,    JANUARY    4,    l86l. 

E  sing  "  Our  Country's  "  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky, 
We  '11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set : 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 
We  have  a  Country  yet, 


384    A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH. 

'T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons  ; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave ; 
Enough  of  speech !  the  trumpet  rings ; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm  ! 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame ; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt ; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt ; 
'T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long ; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong ! 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT.    385 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek, 

"  We  played  with  Northern  fire  !  " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den  ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right ! 

God  keep  us  all !     Amen ! 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S   LAMENT  FOR 
SISTER   CAROLINE. 

HE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion 

and  pride,  — 
Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our 

side ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's 

glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch ; 

But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not  mean 
much." 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbu 
lent  threat ; 

But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "Forgive  and  forget !" 


3  8  6    BR  0  THER  JON  A  THAN1  S  LAMENT. 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?  Have  its  altars  grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  foretold  1 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with 

their  spoil, 

Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from  their 

caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the  waves  : 

In  vain  is  the  strife  !     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky : 

Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts  the  die ! 

Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  wraters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never  be  won  ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have  grown 

sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door ! 

March  25,  1861. 


UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM.      387 

UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,   CAM 
BRIDGE. 

APRIL  27,   1861. 

IGIITY  years  have  passed,  and  more, 

Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 
Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  banners 

bore, 
And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 

Half  of  their  work  was  done, 

Half  is  left  to  do,  — 

Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington ! 
When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 

What  shall  be  told  of  you  ? 

Hark  !  —  't  is  the  south-wind  moans,  — 

Who  are  the  martyrs  down  ? 
Ah,  the  marrow  was  true  in  your  children's  bonei 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed  stones 

Of  the  murder-haunted  town ! 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow  ? 

What  if  the  green  leaves  fall  1 
Better  the  crashing  tempest's  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed  below ; 

Trample  them  one  and  all ! 

Then,  when  the  battle  is  won, 

And  the  land  from  traitors  free, 
Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty's  second  April  sun 

Was  bright  on  our  brave  old  tree  t 


INTERNATIONAL  ODE. 

INTERNATIONAL   ODE. 
OUR  FATHERS'  LAND.* 

OD  bless  our  Fathers'  Land ! 

Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 
One  with  our  own  ! 

From  all  her  foes  defend, 

Be  her  brave  People's  Friend, 
On  all  her  realms  descend, 

Protect  her  Throne ! 

Father,  with  loving  care 

Guard  Thou  her  kingdom's  Heir, 

Guide  all  his  ways  : 
Thine  arm  his  shelter  be, 
From  him  by  land  and  sea 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee, 

Prolong  his  days ! 

Lord,  let  War's  tempest  cease, 
Fold  the  whole  Earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings  ! 
Make  all  Thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  the  sun, 
Till  Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings  ! 

*  Sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hundred  children  of  the 
public  schools,  at  the  visit  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston, 
October  18,  1860.  Air,  "  God  save  the  Queen." 


FREEDOM,   OUR   QUEEN.  389 

FREEDOM,   OUR   QUEEN. 

AND  where  the  banners  wave  last  in  the 

sun, 

Blazoned  with  star-clusters,  many  in  one, 
Floating  o'er  prairie  and  mountain  and 

sea; 
Hark !  't  is  the  voice  of  thy  children  to  thee  ! 

Here  at  thine  altar  our  vows  we  renew 
Still  in  thy  cause  to  be  loyal  and  true,  — 
True  to  thy  flag  on  the  field  and  the  wave, 
Living  to  honor  it,  dying  to  save ! 

Mother  of  heroes  !  if  perfidy's  blight 
Fall  on  a  star  in  thy  garland  of  light, 
Sound  but  one  bugle-blast !     Lo  !  at  the  sign 
Armies  all  panoplied  wheel  into  line ! 

Hope  of  the  world !  thou  hast  broken  its  chains,  — 
Wear  thy  bright  arms  while  a  tyrant  remains, 
Stand  for  the  right  till  the  nations  shall  own 
Freedom  their  sovereign,  with  Law  for  her  throne  ! 

Freedom  !  sweet  Freedom !  our  voices  resound, 
Queen  by  God's  blessing,  unsceptred,  uncrowned ! 
Freedom,  sweet  Freedom,  our  pulses  repeat, 
Warm  with  her  life-blood,  as  long  as  they  beat ! 

Fold  the  broad  banner-stripes  over  her  breast,  — 
Crown  her  with  star-jewels  Queen  of  the  West ! 
Earth  for  her  heritage,  God  for  her  friend, 
She  shall  reign  over  us,  world  without  end ! 


39° 


ARM Y  HYMN. 

ARMY   HYMN. 

"Old  Hundred." 

LORD  of  Hosts  !  Almighty  King ! 
Behold  the  sacrifice  we  bring ! 
To  every  arm  Thy  strength  impart, 
Thy  spirit  shed  through  every  heart  I 

Wake  in  our  breasts  the  living  fires, 
The  holy  faith  that  warmed  our  sires  ; 
Thy  hand  hath  made  our  Nation  free ; 
To  die  for  her  is  serving  Thee. 

Be  Thou  a  pillared  flame  to  show 
The  midnight  snare,  the  silent  foe ; 
And  when  the  battle  thunders  loud, 
Still  guide  us  in  its  moving  cloud. 

God  of  all  Nations  !  Sovereign  Lord ! 
In  Thy  dread  name  we  draw  the  sword, 
We  lift  the  starry  flag  on  high 
That  fills  with  light  our  stormy  sky. 

From  treason's  rent,  from  murder's  stain, 
Guard  Thou  its  folds  till  Peace  shall  reign,  *•- 
Till  fort  and  field,  till  shore  and  sea, 
Join  our  loud  anthem,  PRAISE  TO  THEB  ! 


PARTING  HYMN.  391 

PARTING  HYMN. 

"Dundee." 

ATHER  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend, 

We  seek  Thy  gracious  throne  ; 
To  Thee  our  faltering  prayers  ascend, 
Our  fainting  hearts  are  known  ! 

From  blasts  that  chill,  from  suns  that  smite, 
From  every  plague  that  harms  ; 

In  camp  and  march,  in  siege  and  fight, 
Protect  our  men-at-arms ! 

Though  from  our  darkened  lives  they  take 
What  makes  our  life  most  dear, 

We  yield  them  for  their  country's  sake 
With  no  relenting  tear. 

Our  blood  their  flowing  veins  will  shed, 
Their  wounds  our  breasts  will  share ; 

O,  save  us  from  the  woes  we  dread, 
Or  grant  us  strength  to  bear ! 

Let  each  unhallowed  cause  that  brings 

The  stern  destroyer  cease, 
Thy  naming  angel  fold  his  wings, 

And  seraphs  whisper  Peace ! 

Thine  are  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
Stretch  forth  Thy  mighty  hand,  — 

Reign  Thou  our  kinglcss  nation's  Lord, 
Rule  Thou  our  thronelcsa  land ! 


THE  FLOWER   OF  LIBERTY. 

THE   FLOWEK   OF   LIBERTY. 

HAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 
Its  hues  from  Heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 
With  burning  star  and  flaming  band 
It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land : 
O  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be,  — 
Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 
It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

In  savage  Nature's  far  abode 

Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed ; 

The  storm-winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 

Its  opening  leaves  were  streaked  with  blood, 

Till  lo !  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 

The  full-blown  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite, 

One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light,  — 

The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 

With  spotless  white  from  Northern  snows, 

And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 

The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round, 
Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground ; 
From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread  ; 
It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread ; 


THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN.          393 

It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 
And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

Thy  sacred  leaves,  fair  Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower, 
To  all  their  heavenly  colors  true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew,  — 
And  God  love  us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  FLOWER  or  LIBERTY  ! 


THE   SWEET   LITTLE   MAN. 

DEDICATED    TO    THE    STAY-AT-HOME    RANGERS. 

OW,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our 

battles, 
Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he 

can, 

Down  among  rebels  and  contraband  chattels, 
What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little  man  ? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are  sleeping, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  with  the  van, 

Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweethearts  are 

weeping ; 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  sweet  little  man  ? 


394          TUX  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 

You  with  the  terrible  warlike  moustaches, 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan, 
You   with   the   waist   made   for   sword-belts   and 

sashes, 

Where    are    your    shoulder-straps,    sweet   little 
man? 

Bring  him  the  buttonless  garment  of  woman ! 

Cover  his  face  lest  it  freckle  and  tan ; 
Muster  the  Apron-string  Guards  on  the  Common, 

That  is  the  corps  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 
Each  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly  rattan  ; 

They  shall  defend  him  from  laughter  and  hisses, 
Aimed  by  low  boys  at  the  sweet  little  man. 

All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall  cluster, 
Pluck  the  white  feathers  from  bonnet  and  fan, 

Make  him  a  plume  like  a  turkey-wing  duster,  — 
That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

O,  but  the  Apron-string  Guards  are  the  fellows  ! 

Drilling  each  day  since  our  troubles  began,  — 
"  Handle  your  walking-sticks  ! "     "  Shoulder  um 
brellas  ! " 

That  is  the  style  for  the  sweet  little  man. 

Have  we  a  nation  to  save  ?     In  the  first  place 
Saving  ourselves  is  the  sensible  plan,  — 

Surely  the  spot  where  there  's  shooting  's  the  worst 

place 
Where  I  can  stand,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 


THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN.          395 

Catch  me  confiding  my  person  with  strangers  ! 

Think  how  the  cowardly  Bull-Runners  ran  ! 
In  the  brigade  of  the  Stay-at-home  Rangers 

Marches  my  corps,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 

Such  was  the  stuff  of  the  Malakoff-takers, 

Such  were  the  soldiers  that  scaled  the  Redan ; 

Truculent  housemaids  and  bloodthirsty  Quakers, 
Brave  not  the  wrath  of  the  sweet  little  man ! 

Yield  him  the  sidewalk,  ye  nursery  maidens  ! 

Sauue  quipeut  I  Bridget,  and  right  about !  Ann ;  — - 
Fierce  as  a  shark  in  a  school  of  menhadens, 

See  him  advancing,  the  sweet  little  man ! 

When  the  red  flails  of  the  battle-field's  threshers 
Beat  out  the  continent's  wheat  from  its  bran, 

While  the  wind  scatters  the  chaffy  seccshers, 
What  will  become  of  our  sweet  little  man  ? 

When  the  brown  soldiers  come  back  from  the  borders, 
How  will  he  look  while  his  features  they  scan  ? 

How  will  he  feel  when  he  gets  marching  orders, 
Signed  by  his  lady  love  ?  sweet  little  man  ! 

Fear  not  for  him,  though  the  rebels  expect  him,  — 
Life  is  too  precious  to  shorten  its  span ; 

Woman  her  broomstick  shall  raise  to  protect  him, 
Will  she  not  fight  for  the  sweet  little  man ! 

Now  then,  nine  cheers  for  the  Stay-at-home  Ranger ! 

Blow  the  great  fish-horn  and  beat  the  big  pan ! 
First  in  the  field  that  is  farthest  from  danger, 

Take  your  white-feather  plume,  sweet  little  man ! 


§96  VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 


VIVE   LA  FRANCE! 

A   SEXTIMEXT  OFFERED   AT   THE  DINNER  TO  II.  I.  H. 
THE   PRINCE   NAPOLEON,   AT   THE   REVERE   HOUSE, 

SEPTEMBER  25,  1861. 


HE  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song  ! 
Her  name  your  hearts  divine ; 
To  her  the  banquet's  vows  belong 
Whose  breasts  have  poured  its  wine ; 


Our  trusty  friend,  our  true  ally 

Through  varied  change  and  chance : 

So,  fill  your  flashing  goblets  high,  — 
I  give  you,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Above  our  hosts  in  triple  folds 

The  self-same  colors  spread, 
Where  Valor's  faithful  arm  upholds 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
Alike  each  nation's  glittering  crest 

Reflects  the  morning's  glance,  — 
Twin  eagles,  soaring  east  and  west : 

Once  more,  then,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Sister  in  trial !  who  shall  count 

Thy  generous  friendship's  claim, 
Whose  blood  ran  mingling  in  the  fount 

That  gave  our  land  its  name, 
Till  Yorktown  saw  in  blended  line 

Our  conquering  arms  advance, 
And  victory's  double  garlands  twine 

Our  banners  1     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE!  397 

O  land  of  heroes !  in  our  need 

One  gift  from  Heaven  we  crave 
To  stanch  these  wounds  that  vainly  bleed,  — 

The  wise  to  lead  the  brave ! 
Call  back  one  Captain  of  thy  past 

From  glory's  marble  trance, 
Whose  name  shall  be  a  bugle-blast 

To  rouse  us  !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Pluck  Conde's  baton  from  the  trench, 

Wake  up  stout  Charles  Martel, 
Or  find  some  woman's  hand  to  clench 

The  sword  of  La  Pucelle ! 
Give  us  one  hour  of  old  Turenne,  — 

One  lift  of  Bayard's  lance,  — 
Nay,  call  Marengo's  Chief  again 

To  lead  us !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Ah,  hush !  our  welcome  Guest  shall  hear 

But  sounds  of  peace  and  joy ; 
No  angry  echo  vex  thine  ear, 

Fair  Daughter  of  Savoy ! 
Once  more  !  the  land  of  arms  and  arts, 

Of  glory,  grace,  romance ; 
Her  love  lies  warm  in  all  our  hearts  : 

God  bless  her !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


398  VOYAGE  OF  THE 

VOYAGE   OF   THE    GOOD    SHIP   UNION. 

IS  midnight :  through  my  troubled  dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry ; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name  ?     Where  bound  ?  —  The  rocks 
Repeat  the  loud  halloo.  [around 

—  The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound  : 
God  help  her  and  her  crew  ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay !  look  aloft !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark ! 
May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

—  0  landsman,  these  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save  ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow ! 


GOOD  SHIP   UNION.  399 

• —  Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 

I  know  the  sacred  sign ; 
Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 

Our  ocean  path  be  thine ! 

The  bark  sails  on ;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukea 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  ! 

Still  on !  Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  Rebel  cruiser  scars ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 
—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 

Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care ! 
Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 

The  capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "  sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ? Fort  Monroe  ! 

The  breakers  roar, — how  bears  the  shore  ? 
—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 


400  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION. 

Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

Along  the  Hatteras  sands. 
—  Ha !  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow ! 

Again  the  shoals  display 
The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 

The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

Th«  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows, 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 

What !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 

On !  on !     Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee ! 
Her  topsails  feel  the  freshening  gale, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea ; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 


UNION  AND  LIBERTY.  401 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings  : 
Hurrah !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore ! 


UNION   AND    LIBERTY. 

LAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 
Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thun 
der  and  flame, 

Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 


Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  Nation, 

Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored  afar, 
Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 
.  Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a  star  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 
26 


40*  UNION  AND  LIBERTY. 

Empire  unsceptred !  what  foe  shall  assail  thee, 
Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 

Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail  thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of  man ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Yet  if,  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 

Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou  must 

draw, 

Then  with  the  arms  to  thy  millions  united, 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and  Law ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  Universe  J  shield  us  and  guide  us, 

Trusting  thee  always,  through  shadow  and  sun ! 
Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  O  keep  us  the  MANY  IN  ONE  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 


NOTES 


r 


NOTES. 


Note  1.    Page  5. 
"  Scenes  of  my  youth." 

This  poem  was  commenced  a  few  months  subsequently  to 
the  author's  return  to  his  native  village,  after  an  absence  of 
nearly  three  years. 

Note  2.    Page  10. 

A  few  lines,  perhaps  deficient  in  dignity,  were  introduced 
at  this  point,  in  delivering  the  poem,  and  are  appended  in 
this  clandestine  manner  for  the  gratification  of  some  of  my 
audience. 

How  many  a  stanza,  blushing  like  the  rose. 
Would  turn  to  fustian  if  resolved  to  prose  : 
How  many  an  epic,  like  a  gilded  crown, 
If  some  cold  critic  dared  to  melt  it  down, 
Roll  in  his  crucible  a  shapeless  mass, 
A  grain  of  gold-leaf  to  a  pound  of  brass  ! 
Shorn  of  their  plumes,  our  moonstruck  sonneteers 
Would  seem  but  jackdaws  croaking  to  the  spheres ; 
Our  gay  Lotharios,  with  their  Byron  curls, 
Would  pine  like  oysters  cheated  of  their  pearls ! 

Woe  to  the  spectres  of  Parnassus'  shade, 
If  truth  should  mingle  in  the  masquerade. 
Lo,  as  the  songster's  pale  creations  pass, 
Off  come  at  once  the  "  Dearest "  and  "  Alas ! " 
Crack  go  the  lines  and  levers  used  to  prop 
Top-heavy  thoughts,  and  down  at  once  they  drop. 
Flowers  weep  for  hours ;  Love-,  shrieking  for  his  dove% 
Finds  not  the  solace  that  he  seeks  —  above. 


406  NOTES. 

Fast  in  the  mire,  through  which  in  happier  tune 
He  ambled  dryshod  on  the  stilts  of  rhyme, 
The  prostrate  poet  finds  at  length  a  tongue 
To  curse  in  prose  the  thankless  stars  he  sung. 

And  though,  perchance,  the  haughty  Muse  it  shames, 
How  deep  the  magic  of  harmonious  names  ! 
How  sure  the  story  of  romance  to  please, 
Whose  rounded  stanza  ends  with  Heloise ! 
How  rich  and  full  our  intonations  ride 
"  On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side  " ! 
But  were  her  name  some  vulgar  "  proper  noun," 
And  Pambamarca  changed  to  Belchertown, 
She  might  be  pilloried  for  her  doubtful  fame, 
And  no  enthusiast  would  arise  to  blame ; 
And  he  who  outraged  the  poetic  sense 
Might  find  a  home  at  Belchertown 's  expense! 

The  harmless  boys,  scarce  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
Who  libel  others  and  themselves  in  song, 
When  their  first  pothooks  of  poetic  rage 
Slant  down  the  corners  of  an  album's  page, 
(Where  crippled  couplets  spread  their  sprawling  charms, 
As  half-taught  swimmers  move  their  legs  and  arms,) 
Will  talk  of  "  Hesper  on  the  brow  of  eve," 
And  call  their  cousins  "  lovely  Genevieve  "  ;  — 
While  thus  transformed,  each  dear  deluded  maid, 
Pleased  with  herself  in  novel  grace  arrayed, 
Smiles  on  the  Paris  who  has  come  to  crown 
This  new-born  Helen  in  a  gingham  gown ! 

Note  3.    Page  16. 

"  Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone." 
The  tomb  of  the  VASSALL  family  is  marked  by  a  freestone 
tablet,  supported  by  five  pillars,  and  bearing  nothing  but  the 
sculptured  reliefs  of  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  —  Vas-  Sol,  — 
which  designated  a  powerful  family,  now  almost  forgotten. 

The  exile  referred  to  in  the  next  stanza  was  a  native  of 
Honfleur  in  Normandy. 

Note  4.    Page  20. 

"  Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song  of  Marseilles." 
The  music  and  words  of  the  Marseilles  Hymn  were  com* 
posed  in  one  night. 


NOTES.  407 

Note  5.    Page  20. 

"  Our  nation's  anthem  is  a  country  dance  !  " 
The  popular  air  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  like  the  dagger  of 
Hudibras,  serves  a  pacific  as  well  as  a  martial  purpose. 

Note  6.    Page  21. 

ct  The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain." 
The  lyric  which  follows  was  printed  in  the  "  Boston  Daily 
Advertiser,"  at  the  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up 
the  frigate  Constitution  as  unfit  for  service. 

Note  7.    Page  26. 

"  Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the  last" 
"  Semper  paratus,"  —  a  motto  of  the  Revolutionary  stand 
ards. 

Note  8.    Page  30. 
"  Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar." 
Charles  Chauncy  Emerson  j  died  May  9th,  1836. 

Note  9.    Page  31. 
"  And  thou,  dear  friend." 
James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D.  j  died  March  29th,  1834. 

Note  10.    Page  140. 
O'/»j  ftg  <pvAX«v  yevsij,  rotvibt  KO,\  avdguv. —  Iliad)  VI.  146. 

Wesley  quotes  this  line  in  his  account  of  his  early  doubts 
and  perplexities.  See  Southeifs  Life  of  Wesley,  Vol.  II. 
p.  185. 

Note  11.    Page  145. 

The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which  follow  are,  — 

1.  "  King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of  which  was  laid  by 
Governor  Shirley  in  1749. 

2.  The  church  in  Brattle  Square,  consecrated  in  1773. 
The  completion  of  this  edifice,  the  design  of  which  included 
a  spire,  was  prevented  by  the  troubles  of  the  Revolution, 


408  NOTES. 

and  its  plain  square  tower  presents  nothing  more  attractive 
than  a  massive  simplicity.  In  the  front  of  this  tower  is 
still  seen,  half  imbedded  in  the  brick-work,  a  cannon-ball, 
•which  was  thrown  from  the  American  fortifications  at  Cam 
bridge,  during  the  bombardment  of  the  city,  then  occupied 
by  the  British  troops. 

3.  The  "  Old  South,"  first  occupied  for  public  worship  in 
1730. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809,  the  tall,  white  stee 
ple  of  which  is  the  most  conspicuous  of  all  the  Boston 
spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship  in  1723,  and 
containing  a  set  of  eight  bells,  the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

Note  12.    Page  147. 

For  the  propriety  of  the  term  "  Celtic  blackness,"  see 
Lawrence's  Lectures,  (Salem,  1828,)  pp.  452,  453.  But  the 
ancient  Celts  appear  to  have  been  a  xanthous,  or  fair-haired 
race.  See  Frichartfs  Nat.  Hist,  of  Man,  (London,  1843,) 
pp.  183, 193,  196. 

Note  13.    Page  161. 

The  name  first  given  by  the  English  to  Boston  was  TRI- 
MOUNTAIN.  The  three  hills  upon  and  around  which  the 
city  is  built  are  Beacon  Hill,  Fort  Hill,  and  Copp's  Hill. 

In  the  early  records  of  the  Colony,  it  is  mentioned,  under 
date  of  May  6th,  1635,  that  "  A  BEACON  is  to  be  set  on  the 
Sentry  hill,  at  Boston,  to  give  notice  to  the  country  of  any 
danger ;  to  be  guarded  by  one  man  stationed  near,  and  fired 
as  occasion  may  be."  The  last  Beacon  was  blown  down  in 
1789. 

The  eastern  side  of  Fort  Hill  was  formerly  "  a  ragged  cliff 
that  seemed  placed  by  nature  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  the 
harbor  for  the  purposes  of  defence,  to  which  it  was  very 
soon  applied,  and  from  which  it  obtained  its  present  name." 
Its  summit  is  now  a  beautiful  green  enclosure. 

Copp's  Hill  was  used  as  a  burial-ground  from  a  very  early 


NOTES.  409 

period.  The  part  of  it  employed  for  this  purpose  slopes 
towards  the  water  upon  the  northern  side.  From  its  many 
interesting  records  of  the  dead  I  select  the  following,  which 
may  serve  to  show  what  kind  of  dust  it  holds. 

"  Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep, 

Capt  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 

Who  departed  this  Life 

October  23d,  1769, 

Aged  44  years, 

a  true  son  of  Liberty, 

a  Friend  to  the  Publick, 

an  Enemy  to  oppression, 

and  one  of  the  foremost 

in  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 

on  America." 

The  gravestone  from  which  I  copied  this  inscription  is 
bruised  and  splintered  by  the  bullets  of  the  British  soldiers. 

Note  14.    Page  197. 

The  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and  Agnes  Surraige  is 
told  in  the  ballad  with  a  very  strict  adhesion  to  the  facts. 
These  were  obtained  from  information  afforded  me  by  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Webster  of  Hopkinton,  in  company  with 
whom  I  visited  the  Frankland  Mansion  in  that  town,  then 
standing ;  from  a  very  interesting  Memoir,  by  the  Rever 
end  Elias  Nason  of  Medford,  not  yet  published ;  and  from 
the  manuscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or  more  properly  Sir 
Charles  Henry  Frankland,  now  in  the  library  of  the  Mas 
sachusetts  Historical  Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old  Julia  was  living,* 
and  on  our  return  we  called  at  the  house  where  she  resided. 
Her  account  is  little  more  than  paraphrased  in  the  poem. 
If  the  incidents  are  treated  with  a  certain  liberality  at  the 
close  of  the  fifth  part,  the  essential  fact  that  Agnes  rescued 
Sir  Harry  from  the  ruins  after  the  earthquake,  and  their 
subsequent  marriage  as  related,  may  be  accepted  as  literal 

*  She  is  living  now,  June  10th,  18G1. 


410  NOTES. 

truth.  So  with  regard  to  most  of  the  trifling  details  which 
are  given ;  they  are  taken  from  the  record. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Nason's  Memoir 
will  be  published,  that  this  extraordinary  romance  of  our 
sober  New  England  life  may  become  familiar  to  that  class 
of  readers  who  prefer  a  rigorous  statement  to  an  embel 
lished  narrative.  It  will  be  found  to  contain  many  histori 
cal  facts  and  allusions  which  add  much  to  its  romantic 
interest. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  Frankland  Mansion 
no  longer  exists.  It  was  accidentally  burned  on  the  23d 
of  January,  1858,  a  year  or  two  after  the  first  sketch  of  this 
ballad  was  written.  A  visit  to  it  was  like  stepping  out  of 
the  century  into  the  years  before  the  Revolution.  A  new 
house,  similar  in  plan  and  arrangements  to  the  old  one,  has 
been  built  upon  its  site,  and  the  terraces,  the  clump  of  box, 
and  the  lilacs,  doubtless  remain  to  bear  witness  to  the  truth 
of  this  story. 


Cambridge:  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


HYMN    OF    PEACE. 


.  g  following  hymn,  written  by  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
lSolai3s,  was  sung  at  the  Peace  Jubilee  to  the  music  of 
JCeiler  's  American  Hymn  :] 

.if*  Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long  ! 

Spread  th/  white  wings  to  the  suashine  of  love  ! 
<fome  while  onr  voices  are  blended  tn  soag, 

Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove  I 
Ply  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove, 

Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love- 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long  ! 

"*'  Brothers  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thin«, 

Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for  thee, 
:  Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 

Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  tke  sea, 
^Meadow  and  mountain  and  forest  and  sea  ! 

Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
S  weeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers  once  more  round  this  altar  of  thine  ! 

i""*  Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain  ! 

Hark  !  a  new  birth-song  is  filling  the  sky  I 
Load  as  the  storm  -wind  that  tumbles  the  maia 

Bid  the  full  breath  of  the  organ  reply, 
Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply, 

Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth-shaking  main  ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the  sky  } 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain!" 


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